The Art of Pain

The cell was cold. Not the kind of cold that merely bit at the skin, but the deep, gnawing kind that settled into the bones, whispering promises of slow decay. The air was thick with dampness, carrying the scent of mildew and something fouler blood, sweat, and the unmistakable stench of fear.

Liria stood at the threshold, her hands loose at her sides, her expression unreadable. The prisoner was chained to the wall, wrists bound above his head, body slumped forward in exhausted defeat. His breathing was shallow, labored. His clothes once fine, the uniform of an elite knight were in tatters, stained with grime and old wounds.

The Dark Sovereign stood beside her, draped in the oppressive weight of her power. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across her crimson skin, accentuating the sharp, inhuman beauty of her face. Her golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something both ancient and amused.

She had promised a lesson.