Vaelric leaned back against his obsidian throne, his sharp gaze fixed on the broken woman before him. The room was dim, the torches casting flickering shadows that danced across the jagged walls. The air was thick with tension, the silence broken only by his quiet, mocking laughter.
PLAP! PLAP!
In the darkness, a silhouette of someone could be seen jumping up and down.
Vaelric moved closer, his shadow looming over her. His hand reached out, tracing the curve of her jaw with a mockery of gentleness. "Such beauty wasted on weakness," he murmured, his tone almost wistful. "You could have been so much more. Instead, you're nothing but a tool now… a broken one at that."
He crouched before her, tilting her face upward so their eyes met. For a moment, his expression softened—not with kindness, but with twisted satisfaction. He was in control. Here, in this moment, nothing could challenge him.
But then— snap.