Drink deep.

That’s what you tell them, Graves.

This is the blood of Christ, the cup of salvation. The wine of sacrifice, poured freely so that others may be cleansed, so that the righteous may be made whole.

You hold it high, raise it to trembling lips, and tell them it is sacred. You tell them it is necessary. You tell them that without it, there is no redemption.

And they believe you.

They drink.

They drink because they are told to. They drink because they are desperate. They drink because they think that if they do, they will be saved.

But salvation never comes, does it, Graves?

Because the cup is never full.

It is never enough.

You demand more. You always demand more.

And when the wine runs dry, when the last drop has been swallowed, when the body is spent, you lift the cup again—empty, waiting, needing. And you turn to your flock, the faithful, the ones who trust you, and you tell them—

Fill it.

Fill it with more blood. More sacrifice. More bodies to be broken, more throats to be cut, more lambs to the slaughter. You do not drink from the cup yourself, do you? You do not bleed for your cause. You do not suffer for your God.

No.

You pour.

And pour.

And pour.

Until there is nothing left but empty vessels, discarded husks, and the taste of rust in the air.

But still, you hold out your hands. Still, you cry out to the heavens. Still, you lift that hollow chalice and demand that it be filled again.

Because without it, you are nothing.

You are no harbinger, no apostle, no righteous hand of divine fury. You are a parasite, Graves. A man who cannot stand alone, who cannot fight alone, who cannot bleed alone. Your faith is not strength. Your faith is dependence.

You will never admit it, but I know the truth.

Without them—without their blood, their suffering, their deaths—you do not exist.

And Savor, you’re no different.

You press the dead like grapes and call it a harvest, drain the cup and call it sustenance. But the wine does not flow forever. You don’t create. You consume. You serve nothing but the illusion of indulgence, a feast with no substance, a drink with no nourishment. And when there is nothing left to drink, when the vessels have all shattered—what will you be?

Just another empty glass.

But me?

I do not drink.

I do not pour.

I do not hold out my hands, waiting for sacrifice to sustain me. I do not beg for devotion, do not demand suffering in my name. I do not build my strength on the backs of the desperate.

I do not need the cup.

Because I am not the wine. I am not the blood. I am not the offering laid upon the altar, waiting to be drained.

I am the one who stands when the chalice is empty.

I am the one who remains when there is nothing left to give.

I am not what you drink.

I am what endures.