⚠️ This chapter contains scenes of psychological intensity and distress. Reader discretion is advised.
The cell wasn't cold because of the stone walls, but because of the presence that approached.
His footsteps weren't just heavy; they carved something into the marrow before reaching the rusted iron door.
And then… they stopped.
Short black hair, eyes that didn't resemble the sky as much as they resembled drowning, and a smile that seemed warm… but hid a winter that spared nothing.
Lucien.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, time itself held its breath.
He spoke in a low voice, cloaked in serenity, yet carrying the sharpness of a blade:
"Finally… you've awakened, little sister."
She stepped back, teetering between a nightmare without end and a reality she couldn't believe.
She whispered, barely audible:
"Why am I here?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if observing something long lost.
"Because I missed you."
She looked at him, disbelief flooding her expression.
"Missed… me?"
His smile stretched slowly, silk hiding poison.
"You were always my greatest treasure… your soul, your mind, your blood. This world doesn't understand your worth, but it will learn."
Her voice, edged with a trembling she couldn't hide:
"I have nothing that belongs to you. I swear… nothing."
He took a step closer. His eyes never blinked.
"But you do… you hold power. Power that will let me unite the kingdoms under an empire—or burn them to ash."
She stared, stunned, and murmured:
"You're insane."
"Maybe."
He fell silent, studying her like a sculptor studying a cracked statue. Then suddenly:
"Something's different about you."
She froze.
Did he sense it…?
But Lucien simply chuckled, mocking himself.
"You're… more beautiful since your return from the dead."
He laughed—soft, slow, like a dagger sinking deep—then stopped.
His gaze sharpened, narrowing as if he noticed something missing.
"The pendant…"
He stepped closer, fingers nearly brushing the bars.
"Where is it?"
Silence thickened.
"Don't tell me you returned… without it."
The false tenderness drained from his voice.
"It brought you back, didn't it?"
Her tone was steady:
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar."
The word fell quiet, cold as a bullet.
"I spent ten days searching the shoreline, the cliff, the nearby forest… for your body, for the pendant… and then you reappear? Just like that?"
His eyes flared.
"WHERE IS THE PENDANT?!!"
Her body trembled. The wall behind her felt like an added cage.
But Lucien calmed as suddenly as he'd flared. He smoothed his coat, tousled his hair slightly, and smiled.
A smile fit for a tyrant who believed time itself bent in his favor.
"You'll stay here… until you talk. Don't worry. I have plenty of time."
He turned away, paused at the iron door, and added in a gentle, deceitful tone:
"Take your time, dear sister… This time, time isn't on your side."
And he left.
She remained, trembling—not from the cold, but from a memory she didn't own… yet the body remembered.
The cell was narrow, its silence suffocating like a burial shroud.
It took her a long time to steady her breathing.
She stepped toward the bars and shouted, her voice hoarse:
"IS ANYONE THERE?!"
No answer.
Then… a heavy shadow moved.
A large man, his face scarred, features like a door that would never open.
"What do you want?"
She hesitated, then said:
"I… I'm hungry."
He stared at her in silence, as if she'd asked for something forbidden. Then turned away.
"Wait! Where are you going?!"
He didn't reply.
A few minutes later, he returned.
Dry bread. A metal cup of water.
He opened the cell door, placed them silently, and withdrew.
She picked up the bread, squeezed it between her fingers.
Hard. Like stone.
She lifted her gaze and muttered bitterly:
"Is this a joke? This is a rock, not food."
His expression didn't change.
"This isn't a luxury inn."
He shut the door.
She tried biting a piece. Pain stabbed her gums. She tossed the bread away and buried her face in her hands.
"Damn it…"
Then she screamed, fury boiling inside:
"LUCIEN!! I'LL MAKE YOU REGRET THIS!!"
No answer.
Silence… again.
Hours passed.
Hunger. Fatigue. Heavy eyelids.
She drifted off.
And in her dream… there was no nightmare.
A wide hall. A literary award. Her name about to be called.
The announcer smiled:
"And the award goes to—"
The dream shook. A rough hand jostled her. A gasp. Panic.
Reality returned.
Lucien's face—cold as stone. His eyes knew no mercy.
She rasped:
"What now? Even sleep is forbidden?"
He smiled—that smile before the storm.
"I wanted to show you something beautiful… before you closed your eyes."
He grabbed her arm. Pulled her.
The hallway was dark. Cells lined both sides, echoing with the moans of people who were barely human anymore.
She whispered:
"Who are they?"
"Traitors… or so they say."
He threw her into a dim room.
In the center… a chair.
"Sit."
She hesitated. He pushed her.
Straps wound around her wrists, ankles, and mouth.
The sound alone could wake every instinct to flee… but her body wouldn't move.
Then… they brought in a man.
Torn. Bound. Eyes vacant.
She looked to Lucien.
He retrieved a box of instruments.
Her chest tightened.
She couldn't scream. The gag silenced her, and fear crushed her before her voice could rise.
He leaned in, stroked her cheek with unsettling gentleness.
"Don't be afraid, my little dove… I won't hurt you."
Then he turned, and—
The first sound. Sharp. A scream that split the silence.
"AAAAHHH!!"
Nails torn out. One by one.
Flesh peeled. The echo unforgivable.
She gasped. Tears streamed before she even knew she was crying.
She wanted to run. To scream. To die.
But every part of her was bound.
When the display ended, Lucien sat before her.
"Did you enjoy the scene?"
She said nothing.
He wiped her tears with his thumb.
"Every minute you stay silent… someone else screams."
He removed the gag.
She stared at him. Then spat in his face.
"Over my dead body."
He wiped it away and smiled.
"We'll see how you sleep tonight… with your conscience soaked in this."
He motioned for them to take her away.
And before leaving, said:
"The longer you wait… the louder the screams."
When he was alone, silence did nothing to ease him.
He roared. Kicked the chair. Shattered glass. Tore paper.
Then… he calmed.
Fixed his hair. Straightened his coat. Walked out.
As if nothing had happened.
On the top floor of The Last Drop tavern, behind a door that only opened with a flattened, punishing key, Kaelon sat in darkness.
A candle flickered in front of him. An old book lay open. In his hand… a pendant.
Carved from dark stone, its engravings barely visible.
He stared at it for a long time, whispering:
"If your soul is still here… where are you?"
He opened the book.
"Returning the soul to the host body is rare. It requires a tether… or a sacrifice."
He gripped the pendant tighter.
"If you don't carry your memories… where did the one I knew go?"
He opened a hidden drawer, drew out a weathered scroll.
Post-Mortem Manuscript – Summoning Souls Lost to the Realms of Forgetting.
To return a departed soul, it must be summoned from the dimension to which it was exiled…
…and it may not wish to return.
He closed his eyes.
On the wall… the painting.
Eirelyn.
He whispered:
"I'll find you… even if I tear through life and death to do it."
He scribbled into his notes:
Locate spiritual trace.
Use her blood and true name.
Summon at full moon.
He lifted the pendant.
A faint glow pulsed within.
A shiver ran through him.
Something… had stirred in this world.
Elsewhere in the city, Kaelon stood before a wooden door etched into his memory as if it were part of his own heart.
Her shop.
He reached for the handle… unlocked. A bad sign.
He pushed the door open, called out:
"Eirelyn?"
No sound.
"Hey… you there?"
Silence.
He entered.
The place was chaos. Bottles toppled. Shelves tilted. Strange stains on the floor.
Something happened here… something unnatural.
Under the table… a glint.
He knelt.
The pendant.
Cold—unnaturally so, like it had stored a violent moment inside.
He lifted it, pressed it into his palm.
The quiet around him turned suffocating.
"Where the hell did you go?"
He stepped out.
Fear followed.
But his anger wasn't fire.
It was ice… and it would not melt.
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