Web of twisted magic

The underworld itself peeled away like the slow, agonizing lift of a veil, revealing the bleak nightmare beneath. In an instant, Bethel was torn from the fleeting warmth of the mortal realm and thrust back into the choking shadows of the underworld. The dim, suffocating room returned with its thick, damp air pressing against her chest. The change was abrupt and brutal—before she could even scream, the chains were upon her, snapping onto her wrists and ankles with sickening force. Cold metal bit into her skin, their weight unbearable.

She gasped in horror as the iron rods impaled into her flesh once more, twisting grotesquely back into their cursed place. Her body convulsed as they burrowed deeper, stirring old wounds. And then the dagger—it pulsed again, ancient magic thrumming through it as it lodged itself back into her abdomen, drawing fresh streams of blood that trickled slowly, purposefully, down her side. Each pulse sent shockwaves of pain, as if it reveled in her suffering.