Rulien Draeg's final words, "I do hope you'll be entertaining," clung to Clara like a shroud as the guard dragged her away from the opulent chamber. The gilded cages of the Courtesan Wing, with their broken, doll-like inhabitants, seemed to watch her pass with hollow eyes. This was not a reprieve. It was merely the prelude.
The guard pulled her down a different corridor, one where the polished marble gave way to smooth, seamless obsidian. The walls were like black mirrors, reflecting the crimson torchlight in distorted, hellish ribbons. The air grew hotter, thick with the acrid smell of hot metal and something else, something sweet and sickening that made her stomach turn: burnt flesh.
They stopped before a heavy iron door, from which a rhythmic, metallic clang echoed. This was not a cell. It was a workshop. A forge.
