The cold dungeon walls trembled with every guttural scream. Lila’s body quaked as she sat restrained on the needle-studded iron chair—a creation designed for agony. Every shallow breath caused the spikes to dig deeper into her raw, exposed skin. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the stone like the remnants of a butchered beast.
Damian stood before her, his black gloves slick with crimson. He knelt slowly—too slowly—until he was face-to-face with her ruined, swollen visage.
“You once called yourself a queen,” he whispered, voice smooth as silk laced with steel. “Now… look at you. Nothing but a breathing carcass.”
Her remaining strength was spent sobbing—soundless now. Her throat, torn from screaming, could no longer produce anything louder than a rasp.
Damian stared into her bloodshot
