"Guards, take him," the voice commanded, its tone cold and grim.
Iron hands gripped my arms, dragging me from the cold floor of my cell. My body protested with every movement, pain lancing through my side and shoulders. The guards said nothing, their faces concealed beneath helmets that reflected the faint candlelight. They hauled me down the corridor, my feet barely touching the ground as we descended deeper into the bowels of the prison. The air grew colder, heavier and the smell of rot became almost unbearable.
I caught glimpses of other prisoners through the bars, their hollow eyes following me, no words of encouragement, no pity—just emptiness.
The guards stopped at a massive wooden door reinforced with black iron. One of them produced a large key and with a slow turn, the lock clicked open. The door creaked as it swung inward, revealing a room bathed in an ominous, flickering glow.
The torturer's room.
The guards dragged me inside and shoved me forward. I stumbled, barely managing to catch myself before crashing to the ground. The room was larger than I expected, with walls lined with tools of torment. Hooks, blades, chains, and devices I couldn't name gleamed in the faint light, their malevolent purpose impossible to mistake. A large iron table dominated the center of the room, its surface stained with dark streaks that told of countless victims before me.
"Let's get a good look at you" the voice purred.
I turned my head, my eyes falling on the torturer for the first time.
He was tall and gaunt, his pale skin stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones. His eyes glinted with cruel amusement, and his thin lips curled into a mockery of a smile. A dark leather apron, scarred and worn from years of use, hung over his frame, while his gloved hands seemed unnervingly clean.
"Welcome," he said, his tone almost jovial. "This is my sanctuary."
The guards shoved me again, this time onto the iron table. My body hit the cold surface with a dull thud, and before I could struggle, they began strapping me down. Thick leather restraints tightened around my wrists, ankles, and chest, pinning me in place.
"I must say," the torturer began, stepping closer and inspecting me as though I were a prize on display, "you're quite the handsome one compared to the usual filth that's brought in here. Most of them come in broken—already beaten before they even set foot in this place. But you... you still have fire in your eyes. That'll make things far more... entertaining."
"GO DIE!" I spat, my voice hoarse but defiant.
The torturer chuckled, low and amused. "Oh, I do love it when they talk back. It just makes breaking them so much sweeter."
He turned to a nearby table, its surface cluttered with an array of tools. Carefully, he selected a small, curved blade. He held it up, letting the light catch its edge before turning back to me.
"Let's start small, shall we? We have plenty of time."
The first cut was shallow, a line etched into the skin of my forearm. It stung, sharp and precise, but it was nothing compared to the pain that would later follow. He moved with deliberate care, each incision deeper than the last, carving lines into my flesh. His movements were like a would-be-artist applying paint to a canvas. At first, I refused to scream. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, clinging to the scraps of my pride. But as the blade danced over my skin, the pain became unbearable.
I screamed.
"There it is," the torturer said with a smile. "Music to my ears."
The small blade was replaced with a serrated one, which tore into my already raw flesh. My vision blurred as waves of agony shot through me. My mind screamed at me to fight, to escape, but my body was helpless, restrained and weak.
"You haven't even attempted to heal yourself or stop me with magic! You don't have any magical essence do you?" he said, leaning closer. "You are pathetic, you have no strength. You're not even a soldier anymore. A true disgrace to the empire. You're nothing." He said with a cruel laugh.
"You talk too much," I rasped, my voice shaking but defiant.
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I saw the mask of calm slip, replaced by raw irritation. Then he smiled again, colder and sharper. "Brave words. Let's see how long they last."
The torturer moved to a new set of tools, this time he reached for a metal rod that glowed faintly with a hot, red hue. He muttered a spell I couldn't quite hear and the rod erupted in searing light. Without hesitation, he pressed it against my chest.
Pain unlike anything I'd ever known tore through me. It wasn't just physical—it felt as though my very soul was being burned.
The torturer stepped back to admire his work. My own prisoner number, now seared into my chest, steamed. The smell of my own burning flesh filled the room. Tears streamed down my face as I thrashed against the restraints, my screams echoing off the stone walls.
"Perfect," he murmured.
He resumed his work, alternating between blades and tools, each one eliciting fresh agony.
Time soon lost all meaning. I didn't know if minutes or hours had passed. All I knew was the pain, relentless and all-consuming.
I slipped in and out of consciousness, the edges of my vision darkening as my body teetered on the brink of collapse. In my moments of lucidity, a thought gnawed at me: Would it have been better to have died fighting the demon, rather than suffer through this? The idea lingered, haunting me, even as I struggled to hold on to the faintest thread of hope.
Finally, the torture ended. The tools were set aside and the restraints were undone. My body crumpled to the floor, too weak to stand. The guards returned, grabbing me by the arms and dragging me once more through the prison's dark halls.
They tossed me into a new cell like discarded refuse. I hit the ground hard, the impact sending a fresh jolt of pain through my body.
As I lay there, gasping for breath, a guard's voice cut through the haze. "Fix him up, mage. He needs to survive the night."
Through half-lidded eyes, I saw a figure step forward from the shadows of the cell—an elderly man in tattered robes.
He knelt beside me, he began to chant as the faint glow of magic sparked in his hands.
The soothing warmth of magic brushed against my skin, but it couldn't reach the deeper wounds—the ones that went beyond flesh.
Blood dripped from my lips as I tried to speak, but my words faltered and died in my throat. My vision blurred, my body fighting the overwhelming wave of pain.
"Come on, stay with me. This will be a long night," he muttered, his voice steady but strained. "You will not die on my watch."