«Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.»
In the land of Artelya, where the shadows of the past linger and intertwine with the present, a deadly tradition unfolds once every century. The royal bloodline that once ruled the kingdom is dead, hav...
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A millennia before the Reckoning.
Dahlia found herself lost in the depths of an unfathomable abyss of sorrow, completely unaware of the passage of time and trapped within the confines of a desolate cell.
The world around her had ceased to exist, reduced to a blur of shapes and colors that held no meaning. It was as if a vortex had opened up beneath her feet, swallowing her whole and leaving her suspended in a realm of anguish and despair.
"This cannot be happening," she uttered in a barely audible whisper, the words echoing loudly in her mind. She clung to the hope that this was just a terrible dream, a figment of her imagination that would soon fade away. But deep down, she knew it was all real.
Her trembling hands reached out to grasp at something—anything—but found only air. There was nothing to hold onto, no anchor to prevent her from sinking further into her own thoughts.
Was she still alive, or had she fallen at the mercy of the darkness that hungered for her soul? Perhaps if the latter were true, the weight that burdened her heart might have been lighter. But reality was unforgiving.
The dimly lit cell offered no solace as Dahlia struggled against her restraints, her body quivering with pain and desperation. The metallic tang of her blood filled the air, mingling with the smell of damp stone. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, the agony of each inhale and exhale a constant reminder of what she had lost.
As her vision blurred and cleared intermittently, she cast her eyes toward the source of her torment. The sword, embedded in her chest, seemed an extension of the merciless will of her captors. Its blade pulsed with sinister energy, feeding on her life force and chaining her to a fate she desperately sought to escape.
Silent tears streaked down her face, mixing with the sweat and blood that dripped from her brow. The weight of her imprisonment pressed upon her, both physically and emotionally, threatening to crush her spirit. It was torture beyond physical pain—a reminder that her struggle was futile, that escape was an illusion.
She tried to speak, but her words came out as a weak rasp, scarcely noticeable in the oppressive stillness of the cell. "Why?" she managed to croak, her voice a mere sigh. The question hung in the air, unanswered.
Every shallow breath intensified the aching coursing through her body, a cruel reminder of her weakness. Time seemed to slow as she grappled with the inevitability of her situation and, summoning every ounce of strength she had left, she shifted her focus inward, seeking comfort in the depths of her own being. The discomfort became a distant echo as she steeled herself, embracing the flickering light of resilience that still burned within her.
With a surge of defiance, she pushed against the sword, forcing herself to stand despite the searing throbbing. Each movement was a battle, each step a testament to her unyielding spirit. The sword remained lodged in her chest, but she refused to be chained by its presence.
