Religion was never my forte.

The gods and goddesses varied between cultures and countries in Kosmas, never truly aligning with one another. According to human legend, the great Kosmat created the four Immortals—Iir, Mannix, Badune, and Xanthe—in order to bring the chaotic world above to peace. This in turn lead to the creation of all living and non-living things. And while I did not pray or particularly believe in any of the gods or the all-mighty creator, I did curse them for placing me in this situation. Why did I have to be in this cell?

“Praise be Kosmat, the Great Creator. Praise be Iir, the God of Life. Praise be Mannix, the God of Guidance. Praise be Badune, the God of Power. Praise be Xanthe, the Goddess of Magik. Praise be Kosmat…”

It had been on repeat for the past several hours. The woman across from me had woken me up and was relentless in her praises towards the human gods. Dawned in a matching dark brown robe and veil, she knelt towards the wall directly across from me, her hands clasped in front of her. Occasionally, she would pause to stand, stretch her arms wide, take a deep breath, and begin her ritual once more. She had not once turned to face me or acknowledge the snaps from our cellmates. While her attire did not match the pure white color of the local priestesses, she certainly did have the will of them.

“Lady, I would kiss the ass of the Great Kosmat if you would just shut up!”

A man from down the hallway shouted—another thing that was beginning to repeat.

Earlier in the day, the lanterns that hung from the top of the hallways had been lit by a guard who had delivered what they considered breakfast. A dry slice of bread served with a runny oat mix. I attempted to eat it, but it reminded me too much of vomit to swallow. I left the wooden tray and nearly full bowl next to the gate for pick up, but no other guards had come down. The woman across from me had not even touched hers, dedicated solely to immortal worship.

With the light, I was able to examine my cell in its entirety. The only two things that had been left was a cot and bucket, the latter already stinking with feces and urine. I had held back from using it for a good while, the smell fighting whatever urge I had. I had shoved my shackles underneath the cot, keeping them hidden away just in case I found a use for them. Highly unlikely, but with only the clothes on my back and the gifted lockpick from the guard to my name at the moment, it did not seem like it could hurt anything.

“Praise be Mannix—”

“If I could get out of ‘ere, I would be cutting that tongue out of yer mouth, girl!”

“…the God of Death. Praise be Badune—”

“For the love of all things holy—”

“You aren’t making it any better, buffoon.” Another voice chipped in, a woman this time.

She sounded tired and agitated, though it was directed at the man that would not shut up. Her accent was thick and foreign to me, though it sounded close to that of a native Southern Arawonian.

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“She isn’t shutting up. So, you shut up and maybe the rest of us can drown it out.”

Aside from the chanting, silence erupted the air. It lasted only for a moment before a shuffle and banging noise from down the hall began.

“You’re next, you Diamore bitch.” The man’s voice was a lot angrier and much fiercer than before.

A laugh came from next door as a response. It sounded like the woman herself, though she did not speak again. The man did not say anything either. A scratching noise soon followed, however, like someone clawing at the stone wall.

“…the God of Strength. Praise be Xanthe, the Goddess of Love—”

I flipped the lockpick in my hands, eyes remaining on the smooth surface. It was new and finely crafted, no dents or cracks in the metal piece. There was no branding either, just a regular lockpick. It was cool against my skin, though nowhere close to the stone that I sat up against.

The muddy brown tunic and pants I wore were loose and thin, doing nothing to keep the cold from seeping onto my skin. They had been given to me before I came down to the dungeon. Surprisingly, they were clean—at least compared to the state of the bucket that was not that far away from me.

As I clenched the lockpick in my fist, the door at the top of the stairs creakingly swung open. I heard shuffles down the hallway and the shouts of the man from earlier began once more.

“You don’t have to take me, but take that God-forsaken priestess, will you?!”

The footsteps of metal boots were loud coming down the stairs and an approaching light swung back and forth, revealing more of the dark spaces in between the lanterns that hung from the ceiling. It did not take long for a female guard to stand in front of my cell door. She faced me without a glance towards the woman that continued her chant from across the way.

I stood slowly, a stiff pain shooting through my knees as I had not moved in a while. I kept the lockpick in my hand, partially shoved underneath the sleeve of my shirt.

As she began to unlock the cell door with a similar set of keys from the night before, she spoke, “Lucky you, Blackhart. Your bail has been posted.”

Relief swept off the weight that had been rested upon my shoulders the past few hours. Alvis did come through.

I walked ahead, stretching my legs as I did so to shoo away the pain. “Praise be the Society,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

The guardswoman heard me, her eyebrow raising in response, “Your Society did not pay your bond, Blackhart.”

Confusion hit me as the cell door swung open. “What?”

The woman sighed, motioning me to hurry. “You should be thanking Queen Zara. Not your rat buddies.”

I was even more confused. My mind was riddled with questions and they must have been written all over my face. Queen Zara? The closest I had ever come to meeting her was stealing her distant cousin’s ring from his estate. The exact reason I was in here. Why did the Queen bail me out?

As I had not moved from my spot, still in my own thoughts, the guardswoman grabbed my arm and began dragging me down the hallway.

“Come. Unless you want to stay with the heretic for another night?”

Drawn to my attention, I realized that said heretic had gone quiet. With a glance over my shoulder, the woman dawned in the brown robe and veil was sitting quietly, still facing the wall.

“Thank all things holy!” The man down the hallway shouted at the sudden absence of chants, happiness lining his voice.

Echoes of the guardswoman’s trail up the stairs took over my own, my way to freedom guided by her tight grip on my left shoulder. It may have hurt if I was not so confused by the whole situation.

Meanwhile, the silence in the dungeon left a linger of disturb in my stomach—the repeated chants had certainly become familiar in the past few hours.