The cell was cold. Not the kind of cold that merely bit at the skin, but the deep, gnawing kind that settled into the bones, whispering promises of slow decay. The air was thick with dampness, carrying the scent of mildew and something fouler blood, sweat, and the unmistakable stench of fear.
Liria stood at the threshold, her hands loose at her sides, her expression unreadable. The prisoner was chained to the wall, wrists bound above his head, body slumped forward in exhausted defeat. His breathing was shallow, labored. His clothes once fine, the uniform of an elite knight were in tatters, stained with grime and old wounds.
The Dark Sovereign stood beside her, draped in the oppressive weight of her power. The flickering torchlight cast shadows across her crimson skin, accentuating the sharp, inhuman beauty of her face. Her golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something both ancient and amused.
She had promised a lesson.
And Liria had come to learn.
The Dark Sovereign’s voice was low, almost indulgent. "Tell me, child, what do you see?"
Liria tilted her head, studying the prisoner.
"A broken man," she said finally. "But still breathing."
The Dark Sovereign chuckled, a rich, velvety sound. "Good. You recognize that his spirit remains intact. That, my dear, is the difference between suffering and destruction. If you break him too quickly, you lose the value of the lesson."
She stepped forward, the echo of her heels filling the silence. Slowly, deliberately, she reached out and grasped the prisoner’s chin, tilting his face upward. His eyes fluttered open—dull, bloodshot, but not yet vacant.
The Dark Sovereign sighed. "Still defiant. See how he clenches his jaw? How his breath steadies when he looks at me? He thinks he can withstand this." She let go, and his head dropped forward again. "We must correct that."
Liria remained still, listening.
"Pain, Liria, is an art. Any brute can break bones, can draw blood, can tear flesh. That is simple. That is crude. But true suffering… true agony is found in the delicate balance between body and mind. It is not about how much damage you cause it is about how much control you exert."
Liria considered this, her gaze flickering back to the prisoner.
"You’ve killed before," the Dark Sovereign mused. "That much is clear in your movements, the way you carry yourself. But tell me… have you ever taken your time?"
Liria hesitated. She had fought battles, had ended lives when necessary. But this—this was something different. This was not war.
This was something slower.
More personal.
She met the Dark Sovereign’s gaze. "No."
A pleased smile curled at the demon’s lips. "Then let us change that."
She gestured to the table beside them, where an array of tools lay neatly arranged. Blades, needles, clamps, hooks, and instruments whose purpose Liria could only guess at. Some gleamed wickedly in the dim light, others were stained with the ghosts of past use.
"Choose," the Dark Sovereign said. "But remember, we are not here to kill. Not yet."
Liria stepped forward. The weight of the moment settled over her, pressing against her ribs. She ran her fingers along the cold metal, considering.
A dagger was too simple. A hammer too crude.
Her eyes landed on a set of thin, needle-like implements.
Delicate. Precise.
She picked one up, feeling the weight of it in her palm.
The Dark Sovereign nodded approvingly. "A fine choice. The body is filled with nerves, child. Some wounds heal quickly, others linger. But if you know where to touch, where to press, you can make pain… linger."
Liria turned back to the prisoner.
His breathing had quickened.
Good.
He was afraid.
She crouched before him, her voice quiet. "Tell me your name."
The man said nothing.
She traced the tip of the needle along his collarbone, applying only the slightest pressure. "I can do this gently," she murmured, "or I can make you beg. Which would you prefer?"
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Still, silence.
Liria smiled.
With measured precision, she pressed the needle into the soft flesh just beneath his ribs. Not deep. Just enough to slip under the skin. His body jerked, a sharp inhale of pain tearing through his control.
The Dark Sovereign’s voice hummed approvingly behind her.
"Good," she said. "Not too fast. Make him feel it."
Liria twisted the needle slowly. The prisoner groaned, his jaw tightening. She studied his expression, the flickers of pain that crossed his face, the way his fingers curled into fists against his restraints.
She withdrew the needle and pressed it against a new spot just beneath his fingernail. A cruel place, filled with nerves. She pushed it in.
The scream was soft, bitten back, but it was there.
Liria felt something shift inside her.
Not quite satisfaction.
Not quite horror.
Something else.
Something she couldn’t name.
She pulled the needle out, slow and deliberate, watching as the man sagged against his chains, chest heaving.
The Dark Sovereign stepped forward, resting a hand on Liria’s shoulder. "You are learning," she whispered. "But do you feel it yet?"
Liria frowned. "Feel what?"
The Dark Sovereign’s smile was knowing. "The power. The control. The moment when his suffering belongs to you. Not just his body but his mind."
Liria turned back to the prisoner. His eyes were glassy with pain, but beneath it, something else lingered. Hatred.
She reached forward, cupping his jaw with a grip just shy of gentle.
"Tell me your name," she said again.
He spat blood at her feet.
Liria exhaled slowly, wiping her cheek where a stray droplet had landed.
Then she picked up another needle.
And pressed it against the soft flesh beneath his eye.
The Dark Sovereign chuckled. "Oh, my dear. You are going to be magnificent."
Liria pressed down.
And the screams began anew.
The lesson had only just begun.
Liria watched the prisoner’s body jerk violently against the chains, the metal rattling as his muscles spasmed in response to the pain. His breath hitched, broken between ragged gasps, but he still clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together as if he could hold back his agony through sheer force of will.
Foolish.
That was the problem with men like him—warriors, knights, soldiers who thought they understood pain because they had survived battle. But battle was fleeting. Quick. Brutal, yes, but without precision.
This was different.
This was art.
Liria withdrew the needle from beneath his eye, a thin trickle of blood following the slow retreat of metal from flesh. The wound was shallow—nothing that would blind him, nothing that would cripple him. But the pain…
That was another matter entirely.
She glanced toward the Dark Sovereign, whose golden eyes gleamed with something like satisfaction. Approval.
"You’re starting to understand," the demon murmured.
Liria turned back to the prisoner, tilting her head slightly. "You haven’t answered my question."
His chest heaved, sweat trickling down his brow. He swallowed hard before forcing out a single word. "Go… to hell."
Liria smiled.
"Too late."
She moved quickly this time, not giving him a chance to brace. The next needle slid beneath his fingernail, and this time, he didn’t hold back the scream. It was raw, guttural—a sound ripped from somewhere deep inside him. His back arched, muscles straining against the bindings as pain coursed through his nerves like fire.
[Now this is getting interesting.]
Liria barely flinched at the voice inside her head. The system had been quiet until now, watching in silence as she worked.
[You know,] it continued, tone infuriatingly amused, [I thought for sure you’d hesitate. Maybe have some moral crisis about hurting a helpless prisoner. But look at you. Practically a natural.]
Liria didn’t answer. She twisted the needle, slow, deliberate.
The prisoner sobbed through gritted teeth.
[Oh, that was a nice touch,] the system hummed. [Very delicate. Very precise. I think the Dark Sovereign is rubbing off on you.]
The thought made something tighten in Liria’s chest. Was she changing? Or had this always been inside her, buried beneath layers of civility, waiting for the right moment to emerge?
The Dark Sovereign moved behind her, close enough that Liria could feel the heat of her presence, the overwhelming weight of her aura pressing down.
"You’re not just breaking his body," the demon whispered. "You’re teaching him something. What do you think that is?"
Liria considered the question as she pulled the needle free. Blood welled up beneath the nail, dark and sluggish.
"He’s learning that pain is inevitable," she said slowly.
The Dark Sovereign smiled. "Good. But not just inevitable. Pain is a language. And right now, you are speaking to him in a way he cannot ignore."
Liria traced the tip of the needle down the man’s arm, watching the way his body flinched even before she pressed it against his skin. Anticipation. That was the true weapon here, the moment when fear became just as sharp as the pain itself.
"You see?" the Dark Sovereign purred. "His mind is breaking before his body ever will. That is where true power lies, child. Not in brute force. Not in senseless violence. But in control."
Liria pressed the needle into the tender flesh of his forearm, dragging it ever so slightly. Blood welled in a thin, beading line. The prisoner sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body trembling.
It would be so easy, she realized, to go further. To push him past the point of no return.
[Ah, there it is,] the system murmured. [That moment when you realize how much power you really have.]
Liria clenched her jaw. She wasn’t doing this because she enjoyed it. She wasn’t some sadist taking pleasure in another’s suffering. This was necessary. This was a lesson.
"Do you understand now?" she asked, her voice quiet.
The prisoner didn’t respond. He had stopped struggling, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.
She leaned in, her lips near his ear. "Pain is a kindness compared to what could come next."
A shudder ran through his body.
She pulled back and turned to the Dark Sovereign. "What now?"
The demon tilted her head, golden eyes glimmering with something unreadable.
"Now," she said, "we see if he is ready to speak."
Liria stepped back, watching as the Dark Sovereign crouched before the prisoner, her presence overwhelming even in stillness. She reached out, almost gently, and grasped his chin, tilting his face upward.
"Names," she murmured. "Allies. Locations. Give me something useful, and this will end."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, in a voice hoarse from screaming, the prisoner finally broke.
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"I—I’ll tell you," he rasped. "Just… stop."
The Dark Sovereign smiled. "Good boy."
She stood, turning back to Liria. "And that, child, is how you win a war."
Liria didn’t move, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
[You did well,] the system said, almost… impressed. [I mean, morally speaking, you’re probably doomed. But tactically? Very well done.]
Liria exhaled slowly. The weight of what she had done settled over her not guilt, not regret, but something heavier.
Something final.
She had crossed a threshold tonight.
And there was no turning back.