Blood For Blood

Chapter Four - August 18th, 64 A.D

In the dimly lit training room, I gripped the black-handled daggers tightly, their edges keen enough to cut through the thick tension enveloping my mind. With each precise throw, I could feel fragments of my frustration escaping into the air. The rhythmic sound of the daggers slicing through the atmosphere echoed my determination. The blades, sharp as my resolve, hit the target with unerring accuracy. As the daggers sailed through the air, I found solace in their flight, a cathartic release that allowed me to momentarily forget the burdens weighing on my shoulders. The repetitive motion became a dance of precision, a means to channel my emotions into each throw until the entire room seemed to resonate with the satisfying thud of blades embedding into the target. With every calculated throw, I envisioned the blades sinking effortlessly into the depths of Matthias' heart. Despite the morbid undertones, an unusual sense of joy welled within me. The prospect of his demise, a desire harbored for countless centuries, stirred a peculiar satisfaction. Several days had passed since Lucifer unveiled Hades' audacious plan, and the weight of it still lingered heavily within me. The intricacies of the scheme played out in my mind like an unwelcome refrain, each detail echoing with a disconcerting resonance. Demitrius, the gladiator, and Hades' insistence on his unique suitability for the task continued to vex me. Midway through my relentless training, a guard abruptly entered the room, breaking the rhythmic dance of daggers in flight. "Princess," he addressed me with a tone that demanded attention.

With a frustrated sigh, I pivoted to face him. "Yes?" I replied, my tone laced with a mixture of impatience and curiosity.

The guard shifted nervously, his gaze momentarily faltering as he relayed, "Princess, Azazel has requested your presence."

"Under what circumstances did he ask for me?" I questioned, setting the dagger in my hand down on the table among the others that were usually kept there.

"I can not say." The guard bluntly said.

"I am sorry to hear that," I responded, my resolve firm, "Without any reasoning provided, I am disinclined to go anywhere. Please inform Azazel that I will not be heeding his request. It's an answer he won't be taking lightly."

"He was very insistent that his request not reach anyone else's ears but yours, princess," the guard explained, visibly gulping.

"Well, it seems Azazel has a penchant for the dramatic," I remarked with a wry smile, "Very well, I'll grace him with my presence, but he owes me an explanation for this exclusive summoning."

"Follow me princess," The guard said, turning to leave the room.

I rolled my eyes and reluctantly followed after him, hoping that Azazel's reasoning was a valid one.

Approaching the ominous tower, on the other side of the bridge, the guard maintained an unsettling silence. The twisted ironwork of the entrance gate groaned as he swung it open, revealing the foreboding path that awaited beyond.We traversed a dimly lit corridor, the walls adorned with macabre depictions of tortured souls. The flickering torches cast eerie shadows that danced along the stone, creating grotesque shapes that seemed to writhe in agony. The distant echoes of distant cries and demonic laughter reverberated through the cold, damp air. Descending a narrow staircase, the oppressive atmosphere intensified. The air became thick with the stench of burning sulfur, a noxious scent that clung to the walls like a sinister fog. The flickering torchlight revealed the worn steps, worn smooth by countless feet that had disappeared into the abyss.

The guard came to a halt at the door, turning to address me, "This is the extent of my instructions, princess."

I nodded, acknowledging the guard's words, "Very well, thank you. I'll proceed from here."

The guard offered a crisp nod before turning on his heel, retracing his steps down the corridor, leaving Tara alone in the oppressive silence that enveloped the tower. The echoes of his footsteps gradually faded, swallowed by the chilling stillness. I approached the door and grabbed the handle, the iron handle felt cold and unwelcoming beneath my touch as I slowly turned it. As the door creaked open, the unmistakable odor of blood invaded the corridor. Stepping into the room, I immediately noted its considerable size, reminiscent of the expansive training chamber in the castle. At its center, a man sat bound by chains in a chair, his body marred by blood yet displaying an unsettling nonchalance. Before him, Azazel stood, his gaze fixated on the tormented figure. Along the far wall, positioned to face the door, Roger leaned casually against a metal table adorned with an unsettling assortment of torture devices and knives.