In the early hours of the morning, deep within the dungeon of the Gaia palace, the air was thick with the scent of iron, sweat, and blood, clinging to every inch of stone. Anti-magic glyphs, escape-prevention spells, and pain-enhancing incantations glowed faintly like the eyes of a hellish creature, locking away any trace of empathy. The stench of decay and iron mingled in the air, piercing the nostrils and scratching at the throat.
In the center of the room, a chained iron chair stood like a sacrificial altar: its surface sticky with fresh and congealed blood, patches of skin, and even strands of hair caught in the metal corners. There lay Gresya—the Rat Queen—now just a frail body covered in bruises, her skin peeling in places, fingernails half-pulled out, exposing raw, bleeding, swollen flesh beneath. Her eyes were red from tears, and broken veins marred her face, while her cheeks bore the marks of her own claws as she fought against the pain.
Fitran stood before her like an ancient executioner: his black cloak billowing, his gaze devoid of mercy. The tip of his spiral staff trembled, radiating a sharp blue-purple light, glinting like a heavenly knife ready to slice through flesh and bone. Each of his movements produced a small metallic clink, vibrating the chains that bound Gresya’s wrists and ankles—some of the chains already rusted from old blood.
Without a word, Fitran allowed Gresya to hear the ticking of the clock and the sound of her own breath, growing louder in a space that rejected comfort. As he began to weave the glyph of Revelethum Doloris, the pain was not just confined to her external wounds; it penetrated deep into her muscles and bones. The magic drained the warmth from Gresya’s body, sending sensations coursing through her like being sliced by thousands of fine wires—veins bulging, arteries pulsing, her breath turning into a soft groan that she struggled to suppress, not wanting to appear weak.
Fitran:
(Pressing the staff against her shoulder)
"Each glyph burns slowly: the skin on Gresya’s shoulder hisses, blisters, blood bubbles burst and drip between the peeling flesh. As the staff shifts slightly, layers of skin lift, leaving behind red streaks and clear fluid that dampens the open wound. Her blood flows down her arm, dripping onto the floor, forming a spiral pattern that stains the stone."
When the Veritas Sanguis incantation was activated, the spiral glyph flared on Gresya’s forehead. Her eyes turned red, her neck veins bulged, and every lie made her teeth rattle, until one cracked and bled at the gums. Her finger joints cracked, nails broke and were torn off one by one, fresh blood flowing from the base of her nails, darkening the tips of her fingers. As the pain intensified, Gresya unconsciously struck the chair with her heel, tearing flesh, her calf skin gaping and dripping blood.
Every name mentioned triggered the spell: Gresya’s body convulsed, her breath came in gasps, blood poured from her nose and ears. Sometimes she bit her own tongue to stifle a scream, until her mouth filled with blood, thick liquid flowing down her chin.
Fitran activated the next spell: Spiral Vision—an illusion projection displaying Gresya’s victims on the walls. Each appearance of those small faces made the glyph on Gresya’s arm burn hot, searing flesh from within, sending waves of pain to her spinal cord. Her muscles tensed violently, her knee joints cracking softly, some ligaments feeling as if they were tearing from the repeated agony.
When the Oblivium Doloris spell was used, memories flowed with the pain. Gresya was forced to remember—as if her vision was pried open amidst blood, tears, and the suffering she had inflicted on her victims. She vomited blood onto the floor, her breath becoming ragged, her hands trembling as they clawed at her own thigh until her skin split and mingled with fresh blood. The smell of burnt flesh and bodily fluids spread throughout the room.
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Outside the dungeon door, Joanna could not hold back her tears. Oda fought the urge to vomit. The guards remained still, knowing that tonight was not a time for mercy—Gaia’s justice was being served in its darkest form.
Fitran (cold, heavy breath):
"I want all the names. One lie, one more nail you must pay for."
Gresya finally whimpered, her whole body trembling, thick red liquid dripping from her nose, ears, and the corners of her mouth, her breath nearly gone.
Gresya (on the verge of fainting, hoarse voice):
"...Lady Avira... Lord Heskil... Captain Jeryn...—all of them. Please... stop..."
Fitran stared deeply at her, saying nothing more. He knew that justice sometimes had to be enforced with suffering as heavy as the sins created.
With the final spell, the spiral glyph absorbed all remaining pain, allowing Gresya to sink into exhaustion and blood loss. Her body finally slumped in the chair, half-conscious, blood flowing to the floor, forming a dark red spiral.
The corridor outside the dungeon was silent, accompanied only by the long shadows cast by the dim oil lamp. Fitran stepped out, his black cloak stained with blood and magic. His face was rigid, his eyes somber. Joanna stood there, her body trembling—her face still pale, her eyes wet with unshed tears.
Joanna approached cautiously, holding her breath as it felt heavy, gazing deeply into her father’s face. In her eyes shone a mix of deep fear, yet behind that shadow, there was a glimmer of hope that had not fully extinguished.
Joanna (softly, hoarse voice):
“Father... are you okay?”
Fitran paused for a moment, not immediately answering. He gently wiped his face, his hands trembling slightly, then looked at Joanna—as if seeking forgiveness that he might never receive, even from this cruel world.
Fitran (low voice, weary):
“No. No one is truly okay after a night like this.”
Joanna looked down, feeling the weight in her chest. Slowly, she mustered the courage to grasp Fitran’s hand, feeling the warmth that was beginning to fade. She looked into her father’s eyes with mixed emotions: admiration for his strength, fear of the darkness that threatened, and pity that weighed heavily on her heart.
Joanna:
“You know... when I was little, I believed heroes never stained their hands. But the real world... everyone is hurt within it. You did what you had to do, right?”
Fitran took a deep breath, his exhale heavy and burdened. Gently, he stroked Joanna’s hair, the motion expressing an unbearable fatigue.
Fitran:
“A father wants a world where we don’t have to do things like this. But if I back down, if I choose mercy for the monsters that tear children apart... the old world will be reborn. The same wounds, the same spiral.”
Tears streamed down Joanna’s face, mingling with the pain in her chest. She stifled a sob, then spoke softly, her voice barely audible yet filled with sincerity.
Joanna:
“What if... one day, you can’t stop? What if this spiral pulls us into becoming monsters too?”
Fitran held back the tremor in his voice, his gaze fixed on Joanna with deep emotion—seeking strength in his brave daughter. In the dim light of the dark corridor, the silence felt oppressive, heightening the tension between them.
Fitran:
“That’s why I need you here. To remind me... I’m still human. We all are. Please don’t let me lose my way, Joanna.”
Joanna nodded with determination, then hugged her father tightly, holding him as if to channel some of her strength, trying to fill the emptiness that her father felt.
Joanna (whispering, trembling):
“I promise. I will always remind you. This world... is not completely devoid of hope, as long as we are willing to look after each other.”
In that embrace, Fitran felt the weight on his shoulders lift just a little. For a moment, in the darkness of the corridor that seemed to swallow all light, they were just a father and daughter, both wounded. Yet, behind those wounds, there was a steadfast resolve to endure—for the sake of building a new world that was more honest, even if it had to be paved with blood and tears.
