He leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with bitter knowledge.
"The ancient records don't lie. The mage-gods of old? Every one of them revered—then revered less. Praised—then controlled. Each one bowed beneath the will of the Arcanum, reduced to relics, their divinity bent to fuel the ambitions of mortal spellcasters."
He gestured broadly, almost mockingly.
"And that would have been you. A divine puppet paraded before the masses. Glorified… and then used. Your godhead would not have freed you. It would've become your prison."
The Ogre King said nothing at first. His jaw tightened slightly, eyes dark with memories of betrayals, of secrets and decisions made behind closed doors.
Vellok's tone softened slightly—not out of sympathy, but conviction. "You should be grateful to us," he said. "We spared you that fate. This new path—uncertain, uncharted—it is yours. Painful, yes. But at least it is not a leash forged in gold and praise."
