The world is a prison, and the gods are its jailers.
When the priest's dagger touched her fingertips again, she did not lower her head.
She looked at the statue at the top of the temple that had never been looked up to before, and for the first time she saw clearly the greedy sucking of fear under that solemn face. So, the chosen one who had been expected to "serve the gods" clenched the beeswax that melted quietly in his hand, turned around and walked towards the crowd. Her palms no longer held sacrifices, but ignited fire - the fire would burn through the canopy of lies, towards the throne of God, and towards every soul who was willing to remain ignorant.
Intention: The child chosen by God will eventually become your god-killer