The chamber was vast and silent, carved from obsidian stone that swallowed light rather than reflected it. Amon stood at the far end of the cell corridor, hands behind his back, facing a high window through which pale blue light streamed down like a divine judgment.
Kael watched him from across the shadows, chained but calm, his eyes burning with restrained fury.
"I don't understand you," Kael said, his voice echoing faintly. "You built this system, this prison of chains. You rule with precision and cruelty—and yet, you speak of peace."
Amon didn't turn. He simply responded with a voice that was cold, methodical, and terrifying in its stillness. "Because peace without structure is an illusion. And chaos... chaos is always waiting for emotion to tip the balance."
He finally turned to face Kael, his silver eyes gleaming with unreadable depth. "You think I am cruel. That I am suppressing freedom. But what you call freedom is often just unrefined impulse. Rage. Lust. Vengeance. Faith without thought."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "And your answer is to shackle humanity?"
"I offer them truth." Amon's tone deepened. "And control."
He took a step closer, his voice lowering but gaining a dangerous calm. "Baruch Spinoza once said, 'The highest activity a human being can attain is learning for understanding, because to understand is to be free.' But what if... understanding reveals that humans misuse their freedom? What then, Kael?"
Kael clenched his fists. "You use philosophy to justify your tyranny."
"I use philosophy to protect what little remains of reason," Amon replied. "Do you think I don't know the cost? Do you think I enjoy placing children in cages to prevent another war sparked by blind belief or a thirst for revenge?"
A long pause stretched between them.
"You look at me and see a monster," Amon said. "But I look at history and see patterns. I see suffering repeated in endless loops—because humans refuse to understand themselves. So I rewrote the pattern. This prison, this structure—it silences the voice of madness before it can grow loud."
Kael's voice was low. "Then let me be that voice. Let me scream for those you silenced."
Amon gave a sad smile. "You already are, Kael. And that's why you're still alive."
He turned away once more.
"I do not weep at the death of freedom," Amon murmured, repeating softly from memory, "because I have seen what people do with it. I only mourn the wisdom they ignored before they asked for war again."
Kael stood in silence, a storm brewing in his soul. He wasn't sure what struck him more—Amon's cold logic, or the truth hidden beneath it.
And somewhere in the distance, the prison whispered—stone to stone—its own prayer for peace.