The chains burned. They always did.
Ryker sat slouched against the cold stone wall, wrists shackled in cuffs laced with silver, his dark hair falling messily over his pale face. The damp scent of blood and rust lingered in the air, clinging to the cracks between the stones.
He'd long since stopped counting the days.
Here, time bled into itself, stretched and twisted like the shadows creeping along the dungeon walls. Every hour was marked by pain. Slow, deliberate, calculated. His father's punishment wasn't just about confinement. It was about breaking him.
He stared absently at his forearms, at the angry burns where silver rods had kissed his skin. Some had healed halfway, leaving raw, jagged ridges while others were still red and inflamed. He knew enough of vampire physiology to understand these marks wouldn't fade. Silver scars didn't heal.
