Aira's breath caught in her throat as Lord Varlen stepped forward, his polished boots barely making a sound against the bloodstained floor. The polite smile never left his lips, but there was something else in his eyes now—something cruel, something knowing.
She had seen too much.
Aira forced herself to stay still. If she ran, she would die. If she screamed, no one would help. She had to think, had to find a way to escape before it was too late.
"I admire your curiosity," Lord Varlen said, his voice smooth as silk. He gestured to the chained figures lining the walls. "It takes a certain kind of boldness to walk into the dark willingly. Most would rather pretend it does not exist."
Aira swallowed the bile rising in her throat.
"What… what is this?" she managed to whisper.
He tilted his head, amused. "Isn't it obvious?"
Her stomach twisted as her gaze flickered back to the prisoners. Their hollow eyes. Their trembling, skeletal bodies. Their wrists, bruised and raw from iron shackles.
She had read about this.
She had written about this.
But now, standing in the heart of the nightmare, the reality of it crushed her like a weight she couldn't bear.
Bloodletting.
Harvesting.
The nobility in this world—some of them—practiced the ancient art of extracting life itself. It was a ritual, a perverse magic that allowed them to extend their years, to strengthen their bodies, to make themselves more than human.
And the price was suffering.
"I take only what is necessary," Lord Varlen said, watching her closely. "A small sacrifice for the greater good. Wouldn't you agree?"
Aira felt something crack inside her.
He truly believed it.
This wasn't cruelty for the sake of it. This was something far worse.
This was justified cruelty.
She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. "These people… they were your servants."
"Yes."
"You used them."
"Yes."
Her vision blurred with rage.
Lord Varlen sighed, stepping toward her. "I know this is difficult for you to understand, child. But the world thrives on power. Some must give so that others may take. That is the way of things."
His hand reached out toward her, fingers brushing against her cheek.
Aira jerked back.
Something flickered in his gaze. Disappointment.
Pity.
"You are different," he mused. "That's why I let you stay. You see things the others don't. You question." He exhaled, almost regretful. "I had hoped you might come to understand in time."
Aira's skin crawled.
Understand? Understand?
He was speaking to her as if she were a child who simply didn't get it.
The people in this room, the ones chained, drained, dying—he was telling her that this was natural.
She wanted to scream.
She wanted to rip his throat out with her bare hands.
Instead, she forced her breathing to steady.
She couldn't win this fight. Not now.
She had to escape.
She had to survive.
"I… I don't understand," she whispered, lowering her head.
Lord Varlen's eyes softened slightly, as if he truly believed she would come around.
In that moment, Aira made her choice.
She would play along.
She would pretend.
And then, when the time was right—
She would destroy him.
A Silent Prisoner
For the next few days, Aira played her role well.
She returned to her duties, avoided suspicion, kept her head down. She ate with the other servants, cleaned the halls, did not ask questions.
But every night, she listened.
She memorized the guards' patrol routes. The keys they carried. The way the doors opened and closed.
She learned.
And she waited.
Until she found her.
A prisoner. A girl no older than Aira herself, chained in the farthest corner of the forbidden room. Unlike the others, she was aware. Her sunken eyes still held life, her lips cracked but whispering something over and over.
Aira listened.
It was a name.
Not hers.
Not Varlen's.
But someone else's.
A name that sent a shiver down Aira's spine.
A name she had never written into this world.
Which meant…
Someone else was here.
And they were fighting back.