The chains bit into Eva's wrists every time she moved. Iron cuffs rubbed the skin raw, crusted with dried blood where she'd already tested the give of the shackles. They had learned quickly she would not sit meekly and wait for mercy.
A vampire guard shoved a bucket of water toward her feet, most of it spilling across the stone. His pale grin showed too much fang.
"Drink, little general," he sneered. "Won't be long before you beg."
She didn't answer. Her lips were split, her tongue dry as ash, but silence was better than giving him the satisfaction of a response.
He lingered.
"You don't look like much now, bound like that." His eyes flicked down her body, slow, deliberate.
Her fingers flexed against the iron, testing again. The chain clinked, too short for movement. He stepped closer, amused by her helplessness.
That was his mistake.
When his cold hand brushed her shoulder—light, casual, possessive—she snapped. She shifted her weight, yanking hard enough against the cuff that her skin tore open. Blood slicked her hand, but the motion gave her just enough slack to loop the chain around his throat.
His laughter broke into a strangled gasp. The bucket toppled, water spreading across the stones. She pulled harder, using every ounce of strength, until his body jerked and went still.
The sound of boots thundered down the corridor. Two more vampires burst in, cursing as they wrenched the corpse away.
"This human cur is rabid," one spat.
"Then cage her like the beast she is."
They dragged her arms high, bolting the shackles into the ceiling so that she dangled, toes barely scraping the floor. The weight of her own body cut into her shoulders, the iron biting deep into flesh.
The interrogations had begun days ago—each one more creative, more desperate. She hadn't spoken once.
This time, two guards arrived with an officer.
The officer was tall and immaculately dressed, his dark coat buttoned to the throat, hair slicked to a severe shine. His smile was a thin, deliberate thing that never reached his eyes.
"General," he began, his voice measured and smooth. "You've been very uncooperative. Even cost us a good man."
She didn't respond.
He moved closer, the faint scent of metal and cold air following him. "Tell me, do you think your king even remembers your name? Do you think he'll come for you?"
Still nothing.
He exhaled softly, a mockery of pity. "Such loyalty. I almost admire it. But you and I both know what loyalty really is, don't we?"
When she didn't answer, he fisted a hand in her hair, tilting her head up so she was forced to meet his eyes.
"A leash that tightens until it strangles."
He was close enough that she could smell the copper tang of blood on his breath.
"Look at you," he said, almost tenderly. "A symbol of human strength. A general, reduced to a decoration on my wall."
She spat blood at his face.
The officer's expression didn't change. He released her hair, wiping the spatter away with gloved fingers. "We can do this gently," he said. "You tell me the locations of your command posts, your supply routes—and you'll live. We'll even let you heal."
She met his gaze, voice rough but steady. "I'd rather feed my tongue to the rats."
A pause. Then, without warning, his palm snapped across her face—fast, precise. The slap rang off the stone.
She swayed, head lolling… and laughed, sharp and mocking. "Careful… don't hurt your hand, offic—"
A blow to the gut drove the air from her lungs. She gritted her teeth, refusing to scream.
Calm, deliberate, he gestured to the guards to continue the assault. Each strike landed with precision, a cruel rhythm. Between each, his voice cut through the pain, measured, almost scholarly.
"Where are your armies regrouping?"
A punch cracked against her ribs.
"Who commands your scouts?"
A backhand split her lip.
"How many are left?"
A knee drove into her side.
Still nothing. Only the sound of chains and her uneven breathing.
After a long pause, the officer exhaled softly, his eyes cold and calculating. "Such waste. You could have had purpose. Instead…" He let the words linger, sharp as steel. "You'll pay for loyalty that serves no master."
Eva lifted her head, blood trickling from her mouth, and smiled faintly. "Try harder."
"Oh, we will," he said, signaling to the guards as he left.
Metal scraped against stone as the guards dragged the heavy table closer — a slab of rough-cut granite braced in iron.
Silver hooks, spiked paddles, iron tongs, and serrated blades gleamed in the dim light, cruel and deliberate. Eva's fingers flexed against the cuffs, testing the chains, tasting the familiar sting of blood.
Hours passed. The air thickened with iron and old blood. Drips echoed through the dungeon, marking each measured second. Hooks seared across her arms, legs, and torso. Every cut, every burn, every pull punctuated the questions: strategy, numbers, names. Yet she gave them nothing. Her mind counted each second, sharpening focus through pain.
Eventually, her body failed. She sagged in the chains, consciousness slipping away into merciful darkness.
She drifted somewhere between waking and oblivion, where pain was the only thing that kept her tethered to her body.
Until a blast of ice-cold water ripped her back to reality. She gasped, sputtering, her eyes struggling to focus on the pale faces circling her. Her new tormentors had arrived.
This officer was leaner, his presence colder — cruelty distilled, not displayed. His features cut in sharp, deliberate lines that spoke of calculation, not strength. A faint scar traced along his jaw, the mark too neat to be accidental.
He studied her in silence for a long moment, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — almost gentle. "Maybe we should have some fun," he drawled, letting his gaze drag slowly down her body — the soaked blouse, the bare skin beneath. "It's a pity to waste such spirit on screams alone."
A silence fell.
A guard shifted uneasily. "That's… forbidden. She's an officer. A general. The king would have our heads."
"Look at that," the officer said, cupping one of her breasts. "Does that look like a general to you? Besides, what's one filthy human to the king?—she won't live long enough to tell." His smirk widened as he gestured at the door. "Leave us."
The others hesitated, shame written across their faces, but he outranked them. Orders were orders. They shuffled out, the heavy door thudding closed behind them.
Her head lolled back, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. She swayed in the chains.
Her mind frayed, each heartbeat stretching into the next.
The vampire leaned closer, tearing at her blouse with one hand, chuckling low. "That's it, little human. No more fight in you—"
That was his mistake.
Her forehead cracked into his face with a sickening crunch. His nose exploded in blood, his head snapping back in shock.
Before he could recover, her legs snapped upward. She clamped her thighs around his throat, locking tight, dragging him down with the full force of her body weight. His claws raked at her thighs, splitting skin in ragged gashes, but she only tightened, muscles honed by years of war crushing like a vice.
A sharp crack echoed in the cell. His body went slack.
Silence filled the cell, thick and unnatural. Only the slow creak of the chains reminded her she was still breathing.
When the door burst open, she was hanging there, chest heaving, blouse half torn open, her thighs streaked with fresh claw marks that bled down her legs. Her victim sprawled beneath her, his head bent at an unnatural angle, glassy eyes fixed in shock.
The guards froze in the doorway, silent. One crossed himself. Another whispered, "She's supposed to be human."
They tried again. And again.
New instruments. New pain. New failure. They added a spiked collar around her throat, and chained her ankles to the floor, stretching her between ceiling and ground.
A vampire guard stepped into the cell, smirk curling across his pale face. "Little human, still alive? Let's see what you can do now."
Her gaze fixed past him, unblinking, unreadable.
The guard circled her slowly, inhaling deeply. "They didn't tell me your blood smelled so good," he murmured, a predatory grin spreading across his face as he leaned closer to catch the scent of fresh blood dripping from the spikes digging into her neck.
Beneath her bloodied exterior, she calculated. With a sharp inhale, she dislocated both wrists, letting her body drop slightly. Pain flared in every joint, every tendon, but the movement gave her just enough slack in the chains at her ankles to act.
The guard stepped closer, reaching toward her.
That was his mistake.
She swung her leg backward, the slacked ankle chain whipping with precision against the back of his calf. The clang of iron on bone—or at least against the chain itself—was loud in the silent room. He staggered, completely unbalanced, and stumbled backward.
Perfect. The momentum carried him toward the corner of the stone table where the torture implements rested. His head struck hard, the crack of impact echoing across the dungeon. Blood blossomed at the back of his skull, and his arms flailed uselessly before he went limp.
She hung there, chest heaving, blood dripping from her wrist wounds, every muscle screaming.
The remaining guards froze at the doorway, eyes wide, faces pale. None dared move.
She let herself sway slightly, smiling through the blood.
The chains rattled once more, a sound sharp and final. Then the dungeon went still—save for the slow, measured drip of blood onto stone.