Tenebrarum did not rise quickly.
He stood with the calm certainty of a ruler who feared nothing under the sun nor beneath it.
His shadow fell long across the courtyard as he descended from the throne-chair step by unhurried step.
"Aurelia," he said, her name rolling from his tongue like a verdict carved in stone.
"You break my rules, and you expect silence?"
He lifted one hand—an effortless gesture, the kind only the truly powerful could afford.
"Guards."
Spears lowered instantly. Even the air stiffened.
"For the first offense…"
His gaze swept her, slow and assessing.
"Strike her legs. Hard. Until she remembers that in my dominion, obedience is the only virtue."
The soldiers moved. No hesitation. No question.
Only duty.
"For the second offense," Tenebrarum continued, tone deep as an oracle's pronouncement,
"She will not receive food today. Hunger tempers the reckless."
Aurelia felt her throat tighten—but she stood still.
He stepped closer, the iron of his boots clicking against the marble.
The mask hid his face, but not the authority radiating from him.
"Third… she will be cast into the lower vaults until dusk."
Not dungeon—vaults, sacred and feared.
"Let the cold stone and silence discipline what pride refuses to yield."
The guards swallowed hard.
No one wanted to approach that place.
Only then did Tenebrarum pause, viewing her as though she were a puzzle—or a defiance of nature.
"And lastly," he said, voice low, resonant, ancient,
"she laid hands on me."
The courtyard froze.
"This offense is mine to answer."
He turned slightly, enough so the torchlight burned across the sharp line of his mask.
"Tonight, she will be brought before me. She will stand in my presence, alone, and she will answer for it."
He returned to the throne with the slow grace of an emperor returning to judgment.
"Carry out the sentence," he commanded.
And the guards surged forward.
"No! Nooo!" she screamed, thrashing wildly as the guards pinned her to the cold, unforgiving stone. Her cheek scraped against the floor, the chill biting into her skin, her hair sticking to sweat and tears.
The mallet fell on her leg.
The mallet fell again—harder this time—smacking against her legs.
Pain flared, white-hot, shooting up like lightning, forcing her to cry out, voice cracking across the courtyard.
Strike after strike landed, each one precise, controlled, leaving her trembling, gasping, her body screaming for mercy she would not receive. Every impact was a lesson in submission, every blow a reminder of Tenebrarum's iron will.
Aurelia's hands clawed at the guards' arms, nails scraping metal and stone, but it was useless. Her legs quivered under the relentless force. Her mind screamed for escape, for rebellion, but her body obeyed only the cold, crushing truth: she was utterly powerless in his presence.
And yet, in that torment, fury ignited.
Rage twisted through her blood like molten steel. One day, she promised herself, every strike, every command, every moment of this domination would be repaid.
The strikes did not cease. Guards followed every silent command, their mallets falling like the rhythm of war, each blow sharper than the last. Aurelia screamed, her voice raw and ragged, echoing off the stone walls.
Her legs throbbed violently, every nerve set alight with pain.
Blood seeped, warm and slick, pooling beneath her as she writhed on the floor, her body trembling like a storm-tossed sail.
"Stop!" Tenebrarum's voice cut through the chaos, low and absolute. There was no mercy in it—only the iron certainty of a ruler who had conquered more than kingdoms. "Take her to the vaults."
The guards obeyed immediately. Aurelia was hauled upright, her arms pressed tightly against her sides. Every step was agony. Every glance at the cold stone walls of the lower vaults made her stomach twist.
Tenebrarum remained on his throne, watching, unmoved. Cruelty had a throne in his eyes; heartlessness dripped from his voice. He did not look away as the guards dragged her through corridors lined with shadows and fear.
Even in her blood and pain, she could feel it—the weight of his control. It was absolute. Unyielding. And yet, deep inside, a spark flared. She would not forget. She would not forgive.
Calvus didn't look. He couldn't.
Even though he had witnessed horrors that would have frozen most men in their tracks, this… this was different. The sound of her screams, the sight of her blood staining the cold stone—it clawed at something deep inside him, a part he had long tried to silence.
He had seen death. He had seen betrayal. He had seen men broken beneath the weight of Tenebrarum's will. And yet, this struck him harder than any battlefield ever could.
Why? He didn't understand.
It was not fear for himself. Nor shame. It was… Aurelia. That name whispered through his mind like fire through dry reeds. The way she looked, how she fought even as she suffered—it was all wrong that someone like her should be at the mercy of a man like Tenebrarum.
His hands clenched, jaw tight. His chest ached as if someone had torn something out of it.
He had to look away.
Step back from the scene—or risk losing control.
Leave… if he could. Escape the walls that held her screams and Tenebrarum's iron will.
But even distance could not dull the ache in his chest, nor the fire that stirred in his veins.
He feared what he might do if he stayed.
Calvus took a horse and left the estate.
He needed to cool off his head.
-------------------------------------
The air reeked—sweat, sour ale, smoke, and something older, feral, that crawled under your skin and refused to leave.
The tavern wasn't merely crowded; it throbbed with life, a beast in constant motion. Every shout, every cheer, every clash of mugs added to the pulse, vibrating through the wooden floorboards, sticky with spilled wine and grime.
Tankards slammed onto tables, splattering ale over hands, faces, and the muddied floor. Glass shattered, wood groaned, and boots squelched in the growing mess, but no one seemed to notice. It was a symphony of chaos, a melody of indulgence and abandon.
At the heart of it, a single thick pole rose like a warped totem, slick with the touch of countless hands. Around it, dancers moved with the grace of fire itself—liquid, wild, hypnotic.
They were nearly bare, draped only in thin, stained linen clinging to sweat-slicked skin, twisting, rolling, and arching with every beat of the pounding harp. Wine ran down their bodies, glinting under the lantern light.
One woman tossed her head back, laughing as she stole a man's mug mid-toast, tilting it in a single pull, letting the liquid cascade down her chest and over the polished wood.
Another twined herself around the pole, dragging her palms along the damp surface as her hips swayed, teasing, daring, commanding. Fingers reached from the crowd, greedy and fumbling, only to be slapped away with a flourish.
Every one eyes were fixed on the dancers, on the sin and fire made flesh.
The crowd's roar rose, a tide of hunger, excitement, and envy crashing against every wall.
Every corner seemed alive with fevered motion.
Some shifted over bodies pressed together, silhouettes twisting and writhing with a rhythm all their own—screams erupted, filled with pleasure and desire.
The dancers moved with precision and abandon, each one commanding attention, each step a temptation, every tilt of a head a challenge to the onlookers.
The tavern wasn't just alive—it was devouring itself, reveling in its own chaos, and everyone inside moved like willing pieces in its madness.
And there, beneath the golden curtains, was Calvus.
He slumped in the shadows, a haze of drink dulling his edges.
He was drunk.
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To be continued...