-Lucien Draven:
I lost count of how many times he came back.
How many times did he carve his lessons into my skin, my blood staining the stone beneath me? How many times he made me repeat his words like some broken, trained thing—"I am weak. I am a disgrace. I am nothing."
He made sure I believed it.
The scars crisscrossed my torso, some shallow, some deep, each one a memory burned into my flesh. They would never heal completely. The witch's brew ensured that. The pain never faded, never dulled. It lived beneath my skin, raw and aching, like a ghost that refused to leave.
But today was different.
Today, he didn't bring the blade.
He didn't need to.
The door creaked open, the iron hinges groaning. My body tensed automatically, my wrists burning as I instinctively tried to pull away from the chains. They held fast, the silver biting into my skin, sending sharp flares of agony up my arms.
