In the bowels of the Berkimhum palace, where even screams struggled to echo, Aurora worked.
Not with grace. Not with rcy. But with a hunger that scared even the rats from the walls.
She knelt over the limp, twitching body of Irene—the once-proud Pri now stripped of all titles, all armor, and nearly all humanity. Blood painted Aurora’s fingers to the wrists, thick and sticky like hot tar. Bits of tissue clung to her gloves, still pulsing faintly with rejected life.
The dungeon reeked—burnt nerves, bile, and ancient stone saturated in generations of suffering. Iron sconces flickered weakly above them, casting moving shadows across the floor like ghosts pacing just outside reach.
Irene gargled on her own blood, half-conscious, the sound gurgling up from her open chest like a wet kettle rattling before boil. But Aurora didn’t pause. Her blade worked deeper—past rib, beneath muscle, carving through the slick red terrain like a butcher seeking poetry.
"...It’s shocking you’re still alive," Aurora murmured, not to comfort but to judge. "With this much bleeding, a normal human would’ve died three tis already."
She peeled back a vein, exposing sothing unnatural—pulsing softly like it knew it didn’t belong.
"So many relics... bonded directly to organs. Not runes, not charms—relics. What the fuck kind of ritual do you people run in the Empire?"
Her eyes narrowed as she traced mana lines grafted to the spine like artificial vines choking a tree. They glowed faint blue, even now.
"And what is this?" she hissed, reaching in with her free hand. "Two hearts. Three lungs. Who the fuck engineered you—who ’played god’ in this damn place?"
Irene twitched violently, her jaw tightening through the pain.
Aurora slapped her lightly. "No fainting now. I want you alive for this. You deserve to hear what you’ve beco."
She turned slightly, her scalpel tracing along one of the glowing nerves. It sparked in response—violently—before dimming again.
"...Easy mana casting, tied directly to your neural map," she muttered, awe threading beneath her voice. "I’ve seen demigods with less efficient design."
There was a pause.
Not in action.
But in feeling.
Aurora’s lips curled downward. Disgust. Awe. Admiration. All twisted together in sothing deeply wrong.
Then her hands stopped.
Because sothing didn’t match.
"...Wait."
She leaned in closer. Her eyes, unnaturally sharp under her crown’s enchantnt, scanned every magic-threaded organ.
"These mana signatures... they don’t match your own."
She closed her eyes.
Let the silence press in.
Then opened them again.
"...Transplants," she whispered. "Alive. Mana-rich. Not just cut from corpses—they were harvested. Extracted from living hosts."
She stopped cutting.
The blade fell from her hand with a soft tallic clink.
And for the first ti in years, Aurora shivered.
Deeply.
Not from cold.
From knowledge.
Because only one kind of mage would go this far.
Only one kind of empire would sacrifice dozens of lives—mages, citizens, soldiers alike—for perfect Pris.
She stepped back, watching Irene twitch like a desecrated doll beneath her.
"...What the fuck is the Empire doing?" Aurora breathed, as the candle behind her died without warning, and the room plunged into black.
.
.
.
Back at the border
Kury’s breath rasped, each inhale a knife in her ribs, her face a map of swelling bruises, her lips split and bleeding. The Pri’s rage had turned feral, a beast unchained, and he seized her by the hair, yanking her head back with a force that made her scalp scream.
His fist crashed into her face—once, twice, three tis, each punch a thunderclap that echoed off the stone, splitting her skin, swelling her cheeks until they were a grotesque mask of purple and red. Her eyes, once sharp with defiance, turned blue under the bruising, the whites shot with blood, but still they burned, staring up at him, unyielding.
He didn’t stop. His boot slamd into her stomach, again and again, each kick a brutal punctuation to his rage, driving the air from her lungs. She crumpled to the ground, gasping, her body curling in on itself, but he kept kicking, rciless, the wet thud of leather on flesh filling the undercroft like a war drum.
Blood flecked her lips, her hands clawing at the stone, nails breaking as she fought to hold on. The Pri’s chest heaved, his rage a furnace that burned hotter with each strike, but gradually, it cooled, the fire in his eyes dimming to a smoldering glow as he towered over her broken form.
"See..." he panted, voice low, a venomous drawl that dripped with mock regret, "I didn’t want to do that. I just wanted to play, but you played with the bull, and when you play with the bull...you getting the horns." His lips curled into a sneer, his hand still tangled in her hair, pulling tight enough to make her gasp, a weak, broken sound that stoked his satisfaction.
He yanked her up, lifting her beaten body from the ground, her every bone screaming, her arms limp, bruised to the marrow. Her teeth were missing—one front, two side—knocked loose by his fists, blood dripping from her gums, staining her chin.
Denish, bound and helpless across the room, could only stare, his blue eyes blazing with impotent anger, his wrists straining against the ropes as the Pri’s knights pressed their swords tighter against his throat, a silent warning. One knight’s hand trembled, his blade nicking Denish’s skin, a thin line of red trickling down his neck. Denish’s jaw clenched, his rage a mirror to Kury’s defiance, but he was trapped, a witness to her ruin.
"Haaa..." the Pri voiced, his breath hot against Kury’s swollen face, "matter of fact, I’m still angry." His tone was a blade, sharp and deliberate, as he grabbed her armor—dented, blood-streaked steel—and tore it off with a savage yank. The tal clattered to the ground, a hollow sound that echoed her defeat. His hands moved to her undergarnts, ripping the fabric away, exposing her bare back and chest to the cold, damp air.
Her skin was pale, marred with fresh bruises, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath, vulnerable under his gaze.
"Boys..." he said, turning to his knights, his voice a taunt, "you still wanna go at it?" His eyes glinted, daring them to step forward, to challenge the beast he’d beco.
The knights stayed silent, their faces pale, their swords still at Denish’s throat. One stepped back, his boot scraping the stone, his eyes averted, fear outweighing loyalty. They knew his wrath, had seen it carve n into nothing, and they backed away like they always did, shadows retreating from a fire.
"...Punks..." the Pri muttered, disgust curling his lips. He turned back to Kury, his rage reigniting, and struck her bare body again, his fist slamming into her chest, her ribs, her stomach. Blood blood across her skin, ruptured bruises spreading like ink, her bare chest a canvas of pain, red and purple welts rising where his knuckles landed.
She gasped, a choked sound, her body trembling under the assault, but she didn’t cry out—not yet, not while her defiance held.
He grabbed her hair again, yanking her up, her swollen face level with his. Her eyes, bruised and bloodshot, still burned, a flicker of gray beneath the blue.
"Now..." he voiced, his smile a twisted thing, cruel and triumphant, "you look absolutely beautiful..." His breath was hot, reeking of wine and malice, his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling until her scalp stung.
But Kury, with the last shred of her strength, spat in his face, a wet, bloody gob that struck his cheek. Her lips trembled, her body broken, but her eyes blazed, a final act of rebellion that scread louder than any words. The Pri closed his eyes, the spit sliding down his skin, and a smug smile spread across his face. He rubbed it off with a slow, deliberate swipe, his fingers lingering as if savoring the insult.
"...What’s that s’posed to do, even?" he said, voice low, mocking, a predator toying with its prey. "Your sis call I an...Anybody who cos... I’ll just destroy them. And what was it you said..." His eyes narrowed, his hand sliding to her throat, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. "Your body was sacred? Well, it won’t be sacred no longer..." He stepped back, his free hand moving to his belt, unbuckling it with a slow, deliberate motion, the leather snapping free with a sound that cut the air like a whip.
Kury’s breath hitched, her body trembling, but her eyes held his, unyielding even as her strength faded. The undercroft seed to close in, the torchlight flickering like a dying pulse, the air heavy with the scent of blood and fear. Denish strained against his ropes, a low growl escaping his throat, his eyes locked on Kury, willing her to hold on, to survive. The knights shifted, their swords wavering, their silence a betrayal that hung like a noose.
The Pri’s belt hit the floor, a dull thud that echoed like a death knell. He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her, his hand still in her hair, pulling her face closer to his. "You thought you could defy ....beat ..." he murmured, voice soft now, a lover’s tone laced with venom. "Thought you could play the hero, keep your sacred little body pure."
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