Rachel's eyes fluttered open, a hazy fog clinging to her thoughts as she struggled to take in her surroundings. Her mind churned, a disjointed reel of memories replaying the failed prison break attempt with Cecilia and Seraphina. Her heart sank as she realized where she was: back in captivity.
This prison was different. The air was colder, heavier, suffused with something oppressive. Iron cuffs encased her wrists, biting so deeply into her flesh that a sharp, electric pain jolted up her arms with every slight movement. Her hands trembled involuntarily, and her breath hitched. She tried to suppress the cry rising in her throat, biting her lip until the metallic taste of blood grounded her in the present.
'This isn't over. Think. Stay sharp,' she told herself, even as the chains rattled ominously with the slightest shift.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor, deliberate and loud. Rachel's body stiffened, and she turned her gaze toward the sound. A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the dim light of the cell.
"So, this is the Saintess," the girl said, her voice tinged with mocking curiosity. Her golden hair shimmered, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, and her icy blue eyes gleamed with malicious delight. She bore an unsettling resemblance to Rachel—a cruel mirror image.
"Yes, Your Holiness," a Paladin standing behind her confirmed, bowing deeply.
The cell door creaked open, and the girl entered, her expression one of casual malice. Rachel stared at her, trying to summon courage, but the girl's smirk deepened.
Thwack!
The slap came without warning, sending Rachel's head snapping to the side. Her cheek flared with pain, but it was the indignity of the act that burned hotter. She turned her gaze back to the girl, her sapphire eyes defiant despite the sting.
"How dare a little nothing like you look me in the eyes," the girl sneered, her voice sharp and venomous. Her fingers twitched with a surge of mana, and Rachel instinctively recoiled as the girl reached for her.
"Hey, you idiots!" the girl snapped at the guards. "I told you to cut her clothes properly. Are you completely useless?"
A flick of the girl's hand unleashed a burst of mana, disintegrating the fabric covering Rachel's midsection. Rachel's breath hitched as the icy air hit her exposed skin. She tried to speak, to protest, but the girl's hand struck her again, silencing her with another sharp slap.
"Listen up," the girl hissed, crouching so her face was level with Rachel's. "You're not a Saintess anymore. Not here. You're a tool—a shiny little toy for me to use however I see fit. Understand?"
Rachel's lips parted, but no sound came out. Pain and fury mingled in her heart as the girl's hand pinched her side with cruel precision, forcing a wince from her.
"Wow," the girl breathed, her tone shifting to something almost admiring as her fingers brushed against Rachel's skin. "You really are a Saintess. I can feel it—the purity, the light mana flowing through you. Exquisite."
'What is she doing?' Rachel thought, dazed and unable to resist as the girl's palm lingered on her stomach, her nails digging in just enough to prick the skin.
The girl's smirk widened into something grotesque. "Your Gift…" she said softly, her voice dripping with malice. "I'll devour it."
Rachel's eyes widened in horror as the girl's hand began to glow, siphoning her mana. Pain tore through her like jagged shards of glass, and her body convulsed involuntarily. A scream erupted from her throat, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the cell.
The girl laughed, a sound that was equal parts glee and cruelty. "Scream all you want," she cooed. "No one will save you. Not here."
Rachel's vision blurred, her mind fraying under the onslaught. She clung to the faintest threads of hope, even as her strength ebbed away.
'Arthur… where are you?'
__________________________________________________________________________________
The High Sovereign lounged on his ornate throne, a gaudy monstrosity of gold and crimson that seemed more intent on flaunting its owner's wealth than offering comfort. His expression was one of languid satisfaction, though the glint in his eyes betrayed a darker current of thought.
"So, the Pope is with the Saintess?" he asked lazily, his voice a velvet purr that barely masked the sharpness beneath.
His Chancellor, a stooped man whose every movement seemed calculated to avoid offense, nodded with a deferential bow. "Yes, Your Majesty. The Pope is conducting… preparations as we speak."
'What a twisted power,' the High Sovereign mused, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his throne. The Pope's Gift was a thing of malice, so vile in its design that even he—a man who reveled in debauchery—felt a shiver of unease whenever it was wielded. A cruel, parasitic ability that drained its victims of their essence, leaving them as little more than husks.
The thought sent a flicker of pity through his mind before it was quickly extinguished. 'That girl is as good as dead now,' he thought with a smirk. 'A shame, really. I wouldn't have minded keeping her under me, just once.'
"What does Your Majesty wish to do with the other two?" the Chancellor ventured, his head still bowed. "They are proving… spirited."
The High Sovereign's lips curled into a wolfish grin, his gaze distant as he imagined. "Oh, spirited, are they? I've always enjoyed breaking in the feisty ones." His laugh was low, a sound that made even the air seem to recoil.
The Chancellor joined in, his own laugh a feeble echo, a sycophant's mimicry. Their mirth echoed through the chamber, a grotesque harmony that made Owen's stomach churn.
The Sword Saint stood at his post, his hands clasped behind his back. His knuckles turned white, his nails digging into his palms as the High Sovereign's words clawed at his ears. He remained silent, his face impassive, but inside, a storm raged.
'This man… is the one I serve?' The thought rose unbidden, and Owen found himself staring at the man on the throne with something dangerously close to contempt. The Sovereign spoke with no dignity, no honor—only lust, raw and unfiltered, as if it were the sole force driving his existence.
The High Sovereign was a grotesque incarnation of his desires, a living embodiment of unchecked avarice and hedonism. Owen's eyes flickered to the Chancellor, whose groveling demeanor only deepened his disgust. These were the men leading their empire, and the weight of that truth pressed on him like an iron chain.
'This is why we are falling apart,' Owen thought bitterly. Not because of the Demon King. 'Not because of external threats. Because of him. Because of his greed, his cruelty, his... filth.'
It wasn't a secret—everyone in the palace knew. Ministers who refused to yield their wives or daughters to the High Sovereign's predations had quietly resigned or vanished altogether. The court was now a hollow shell, populated only by those who either shared the Sovereign's depravity or were too spineless to resist it.
Owen's jaw tightened as his thoughts drifted to his own family. He knew the truth of his position: the only reason his wife and daughter had been spared was because of his usefulness. The High Sovereign needed him. Without the Sword Saint, the Demon King's forces would have razed the empire long ago.
But what would happen when the Demon King was defeated? When Owen was no longer indispensable? The question haunted him, a specter that whispered in the back of his mind. He could already see the Sovereign's lecherous gaze falling on his loved ones, could hear the inevitable demand that would follow.
'Would I bow then?' The thought sent a spike of revulsion through him, and he swallowed hard, his throat dry. 'Would I betray my honor, my family, for the sake of duty? Or would I stand, knowing it would cost me everything?'
The High Sovereign's laugh dragged him from his thoughts, grating against his resolve like sandpaper on raw skin. Owen's fists clenched tighter, his nails now biting into his flesh, drawing faint pinpricks of blood.