Chapter: The Sixth Circle of the Underworld, Heresy

As we passed through the gates of Dis, the heat

And stench of burning metal clung to air,

Wrapping around us in a tight, cruel sheet.

The red glow from the towers, with their glare,

Cast shadows long and jagged on our path,

Mocking our steps as if they did not care.

The air was thick with echoes of a wrath,

The voices silenced, trapped in voids of dread,

Their whispers lost, no longer songs or laugh.

"We've reached the Sixth," said Virgil, with a thread

Of calm within his voice, though hard to keep,

"For here, the heretics are housed with dead."

The city's landscape twisted like a heap

Of iron tombs, sealed with thick chains of rust,

Each one a cage where flames around did creep.

Upon each tomb, with fire's touch, were thrust

The names of those condemned, their labels cast,

And in their iron cells, their voices hushed.

We moved in close, where muffled cries amassed,

From those who dared to speak against the creed,

Now silenced, trapped, their protests in the past.

The heat grew fierce from burning thoughts of need,

The flames consumed their very selves inside,

Reducing them to shadows of their breed.

Yet even in their torment, though they cried,

I sensed defiance still within their soul,

A stubborn flame their torment could not hide.

"These are the heretics," in solemn toll,

Said Virgil, guiding me through iron maze,

"Who challenged truths the world held as its goal."

Their names were etched in iron's fiery blaze,

The ones who once had led great revolutions,

Now punished for their visionary gaze.

But worse than tombs of ancient persecutions,

These spoke of modern times, where voices strong

Were silenced by the mob's swift executions.

The tools that once connected right and wrong,

Had turned to chains of silence, crushing free

The very thoughts that made the world belong.

One tomb stood out, its surface like a sea

Of names entwined, a monument of shame,

Where countless lives were lost in infamy.

These were the canceled souls, without a claim,

Whose lives were ruined for views out of place,

Their voices drowned beneath the waves of blame.

I felt the weight of stories in this space,

Of voices stifled, truth cast to the flame,

All buried here in silence's embrace.

As we pressed on, the cries grew more the same,

A chorus of despair in twisted halls,

Where thoughts once bright were now a broken frame.

Virgil stopped near a tomb, his gaze appalled,

"These souls," he said, "relive their final fall,

Aware, but powerless behind these walls."

Their fate, a mirror to the world's great sprawl,

Where voices are extinguished out of fear,

Their cries unheard, though close, like distant call.

I stared at names etched deep, my heart sincere,

For these were not just shadows lost in night,

But people once who shaped the world so dear.

I grabbed the iron bars with all my might,

To free the voices trapped within this space,

But they were sealed, their grip too strong, too tight.

The metal burned my hands, a harsh embrace,

Yet still I pulled, frustration in my cry,

For these souls did not deserve this place.

"Why?" I shouted, voice that reached the sky,

"Why silence those who dared to speak their truth?

They have a right to live, not just to die!"

Virgil, calm yet sad, gave voice to proof,

"These tombs were built by those who feared the new,

Believing they protect the world's own youth."

"But who decides?" I asked, my anger grew,

"Who says what's dangerous, what should be heard?

This isn't right, it's madness through and through!"

Virgil nodded, taking in my word,

"It's human nature, driven by their dread,

To guard the truths they hold, however blurred."

I felt the weight of all that had been said,

And with it came a helpless, burning fire,

These voices lost, these ideas left for dead.

"They've become caretakers of their desire,"

I muttered, "but it's comfort, not the truth,

They bury here the minds that might inspire."

Virgil sighed, his gaze with wisdom's youth,

"Cancelling ideas is more than just a shame,

It shapes the world by cutting out the proof."

I let the iron go, my hands in pain,

The bars were cold, the tomb remained the same,

Unyielding, sealed, the voices lost again.

--

As I walked with Virgil by my side,

The heat grew fierce, the stench of burning ash

Wrapped round us tight, a stifling, seething tide.

The eerie glow from tombs began to flash,

Like beating hearts beneath the restless ground,

As if the world prepared for some great clash.

The landscape shifted with a groaning sound,

The earth below us cracked, then split apart,

And iron tombs began to rise, unbound.

"What's happening?" I asked with trembling heart,

As chaos reigned and ground beneath us shook,

The order of this place began to dart.

Virgil stood firm, his gaze a steady look,

"The masters of this circle shift their views,

They rewrite rules, as if from some new book."

The ground then split, revealing molten hues,

And new tombs rose, immense and jagged high,

With names inscribed, still burning in their pews.

From shadows deep, the demons then did fly,

Their twisted forms dragged souls into the night,

Condemning those who now were deemed awry.

These were not the souls we'd seen in plight,

But recent ones, whose cries did pierce the air,

As demons shoved them into tombs so tight.

Their fingers clawed at iron doors with care,

But none could break the prison of their fate,

Sealed in by hands of torment, stripped and bare.

"What is this madness?" I asked, filled with hate,

"Why are they condemned to such a fate,

For thoughts alone that shift like wind-blown slate?"

Virgil's voice was soft, but firm and straight,

"This is the nature of the power here,

Truth bends to those who wield it, new or late."

And more were dragged, their faces lined with fear,

Once praised for thoughts now crushed by shifting tides,

Their voices silenced by a truth austere.

Yet others, long entombed, still bide their rides,

Though their beliefs now matched the newer creed,

Their tombs stayed shut, as justice still derides.

"This isn't right," I said, in growing need,

My anger rising with each iron slam,

"They're judged by thoughts, not by a sinful deed!"

Virgil nodded, his face a solemn dam,

"This is the peril of a truth that's bent

To serve the will of those who wield the ram."

His words sank deep, as anger, sadness blent,

For truth, I saw, should not be used to bind,

But to illuminate, not to prevent.

I clenched my fists, resolve within me lined,

"There must be change; this madness can't go on.

We cannot live in fear of speaking mind."

Virgil's hand on my shoulder gently drawn,

"Hold to your truth, speak out despite the fear,

For in the darkest hour, truth is dawn."

The last new tomb was sealed with iron gear,

The final scream a muffled, chilling sound,

And I stood trembling, vision sharp and clear.

"The fight is not for victory, but ground,"

Virgil said, his voice a calming stream,

"To question, learn, and challenge what's around."

The chaos settled, like a waking dream,

But still the weight of truth, of justice lost,

Pressed heavy on my heart like coldest beam.

Yet in that place, amid the growing frost,

I vowed to hold my truth, to let it grow,

For silence, not the voice, must bear the cost.

So onward we did march, through fires low,

With truth as our defense against the night,

For only through the light can we bestow.