Fire and Blood

Chapter 119: Aeonar the Deceiver

Red Keep ― Black cells...

In the depths of the Red Keep's third level of dungeons, Beatrice was suspended from a damp, gloomy wooden pillar. The dampness of the black cells seeped into her bones, causing a shiver to run down her spine. The air was thick with the stench of decay and despair, a constant reminder of the fate that awaited those unfortunate enough to find themselves in this forsaken place. The cries of agony that echoed through the chamber were a haunting symphony, a chorus of pain that seemed to seep into every crevice of her being. Her wrists, bound tightly together by unyielding chains, throbbed with pain as she struggled against her restraints. The cold metal dug into her skin, leaving angry red marks that served as a cruel reminder of her captivity. Her ankles, too, were tightly secured, rendering any hope of escape futile. She was trapped, a prisoner in a place she once called home as Queen consort.

As she hung there, Beatrice's mind wandered back to the days when she walked the halls of the Red Keep. She had been the queen. But now, all that remained of her former life were distant memories, fading like whispers in the wind. The black cells' stone walls seemed to close in on her, suffocating her spirit. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows on the damp walls, creating a macabre dance of light and darkness. The silence was broken only by the occasional drip of water, a haunting reminder of the passage of time. She had heard whispers of the fate that awaited her. The Red Keep's dungeons were notorious for their cruelty and the unspeakable horrors within their walls. Beatrice knew that her days were numbered, that her fate was sealed. But still, a flicker of defiance burned within her. With every ounce of strength she could muster, Beatrice strained against her chains, desperate to break free. The pain in her wrists intensified, but she refused to let it deter her.

"Struggle against your restraints all you like, Beatrice, but it makes no difference in the end." Aeonar emerged from the darkness, his face hidden by the shadows cast by the dimly lit torches. His face remained hidden, concealed by the intricate dance of shadows cast by the dimly lit torches that lined the ancient stone walls. The flickering flames seemed to dance in harmony with the ominous aura surrounding him, intensifying the air of mystery and danger permeating the room. Beside him stood the elders of the Lykirī Mēre, a clandestine group of highly skilled assassins renowned for their lethal precision and unwavering loyalty. Each elder exuded an aura of silent power, their presence commanding respect and fear in equal measure. These individuals were the epitome of darkness, their very existence shrouded in secrecy and whispered tales of their deadly exploits.

Bound and helpless, Beatrice strained against her restraints, her heart pounding in her chest. The cold, unforgiving chains that held her captive seemed to mock her futile escape attempts. But it was not just the physical restraints that held her captive; it was the weight of Aeonar's words that genuinely imprisoned her.

"The accommodations are a bit... sparse, I know. But know this: escape is but a fleeting dream in this place. All you're doing... is simply prolonging the inevitable. All who defy me... end up meeting a fate far worse than death."

"What did... What did you do to my father? To my daughter? Where are they?!" Beatrice attempted to raise her voice, but every word she managed to utter was a struggle, her throat parched and constricted. The pain of her injuries seemed to intensify with every syllable, as if the very act of speaking was a punishment in itself. The restraints, cruel and unforgiving, dug deeper into her flesh, leaving angry red marks that mirrored the torment she felt within. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, a bitter reminder of the violence inflicted upon her. Her right arm was reduced to a mangled mess of irritated flesh, throbbing relentlessly, amplifying her agony. Her once radiant dress, a symbol of her status and grace, now hung in tatters, reflecting the destruction that had befallen her. The fabric, once vibrant and luxurious, now clung to her battered body, a pitiful reminder of the brutality she had endured. The torn seams and shredded lace mirrored the fragments of her shattered spirit. Every inch of Beatrice's body bore the scars of her torment, a testament to the relentless cruelty she had been subjected to. Her face, once radiant and full of life, now marred by deep lacerations and grotesque swelling, told a story of unimaginable suffering. Once a vessel of beauty and elegance, her body was now a canvas of pain and despair.