Sacrifice of the Symbol of the Sign

They gather on the ridge, eyes blazing like molten steel. Their fists clench at their sides-knuckles whitening under the weight of betrayal. Every breath they draw hisses with scorn; every heartbeat pounds a war drum calling for the ruin of mercy. They stand as living storms: thunder rolling across bruised skies, lightning crackling with indignation. Their voices, when they rise, are guttural roars that shake mountains-an anthem of fury scorning any glimmer of compassion. Yet beneath the rage lies a tremor of awe: a grudging respect for that stubborn light they hate. It drives them mad-the idea that goodness can stand firm against their fury, unmoved by spite or slaughter. And so their anger burns all the hotter, a crucible of wrath and wonder, forging them into avatars of defiance against a peace they cannot comprehend.