Wages of Sin
The white room pressed in on me, suffocating in its sterile perfection. The five figures loomed before me, shadows twisting in their robes. They called Axl, the arrogant bastard, "their chosen"? My stomach churned. So I automatically deduced they were the Gods or at least their representatives.
"Your Name," one commanded, the voice echoing like a chorus in the empty space. My name tripped off my tongue, "Neveah Isolde." Why should they care even about my name, I thought.
This wasn't some courtroom; so maybe asking my name it was a power play, to intimidate and I was the fly caught in the spider's web.
"Give me your reason for trying to kill the dragon chosen," another figure spoke, their voice feminine and unnervingly calm.
"Self-defense," I said back, as calmly as I can.
"Self-defense..." they echoed, drawing out the word. It felt more like an accusation than a question. "Elaborate."