The Angel's Cross

Prologue: Death

Sacré Royaume was a city alive with the bustle of merchants, peasantry, slaves, and a vast array of people. The air was dry, filled with the noise of children running around stalls, the pleas of beggars, and the bargaining of vendors. The streets were narrow, squeezed between homes that mixed the old and the new, renaissance buildings towering to claustrophobic heights. Amidst the kingdom's slums, something darker lurked just beneath the surface—figures that skulked in the shadows, more sinister than the decaying streets themselves. A place where no one dared venture too far.

But there was one thing in particular..

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A suffocating darkness filled the cramped, airless room, its silence broken only by the faint clinking of chains swaying from the ceiling. The cold, damp air pulsed with each slow, echoing drip of unseen liquid—a morbid rhythm in the oppressive quiet.

A man lay shackled to a black stone wall, his arms stretched wide, thick iron cuffs biting into his wrists. His ankles were chained close together, forcing his body into a rigid, cruciform stance against the unyielding stone. A leather strap bound his head, pressing it to the wall and forcing his gaze into impenetrable darkness.

His eyes fluttered open, finding only a void; confusion bled into fear as he strained against the restraints, each shallow breath echoing in the suffocating emptiness around him.

“Mmph…” He tugged against the chains, his body tensing with a surge of panic. *Where am I? What’s happening?* His mind scrambled for clarity, his thoughts fractured.

He tried to scream, but a metal gag forced his jaw shut, transforming his pleas into garbled, desperate sounds.

“H-help!” he choked, his voice barely a whisper. “Someone… please…”

His muffled cries faded into the vast silence, swallowed by shadows that seemed almost alive. Then—a sound. Footsteps, measured and deliberate, echoed down the stone corridor. Each step was a slow, resonant beat, relentless in its approach.

A shadow shifted at the edge of his vision, gliding into the room with an eerie calm. The figure wore a cloak of deep, blood-red fabric, its hood drawn low to obscure their face. A dim, pulsing crimson light emanated from a lantern held in one withered hand, casting the room in a sickly glow. It was the only source of light, flickering just enough to paint twisted red shadows along the walls.

“Ah… you’re finally awake?” The figure’s voice was a low murmur, almost amused, yet edged with something darker.

The captive’s eyes widened, a wave of helpless dread crashing over him. He yanked against his chains, the sharp clinks were echoes of dread. The robed figure’s hand extended slowly, almost languidly, reaching out to trace a dry, withered finger down the captive’s chest, the touch both grotesque and oddly careful.

“Shhh…No need for such a fuss."” the figure whispered, the sound soft and sinister.

" You didn’t manage to warn Marques in time, didn't you?” The figure continued

“A noble servant, abandoned by his master. How... disappointing"?” his voice dripping with cruel amusement.

The captive’s breaths quickened, each one a shallow, ragged pull, as though fear itself was robbing him of air. His mind spun, gritted his teeth on the edge, trying to grasp onto anything that might make sense in this nightmare.

The figure leaned closer, his voice a chilling whisper that seeped into the captive’s ears like poison.

“They call me Ludus del von Rubik,” he said, the name rolling off his tongue with a smooth, practiced rhythm. He paused, letting the weight of his name settle, savoring the captive’s visible dread.

“Her Mistress informant… intelligence gatherer, and assistant, you might say. Though I think…”

A glimmer of sadistic amusement glinted in his voice.

“…you’d prefer my other title. The Torturer.”

A violent shudder rippled through the captive’s body, his skin breaking out in a cold sweat. Ludus tilted his head, his gaze hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, though the faintest curve of a smile could be seen at the edge of his lips.

“Ah, ah… don’t bother struggling,” Ludus murmured, an edge of mockery lacing his tone.

“Your friends are here with us too… just as eager to share what they know.”

He raised the lantern, the faint red light casting a sickly glow across the room, illuminating a nightmarish sight: a flayed corpse hung invertedly limp from chains at the room's center, its skin peeled back in grotesque strips, muscles exposed beneath a slick sheen of blood. Red dripped slowly from its limbs, pooling beneath in a dark stain that seemed almost to pulse in the flickering light.

The captive froze,  falling only to a silent scream. His mind fought to shut out the sight, yet the grotesque image burned into his memory, each detail more terrible than the last. His whimpers barely filled the space, his tears mixing with the cold sweat that now traced lines down his face.

Ludus leaned in, his withered fingers curling around a small, glinting scalpel held in his other hand. The faintest smile ghosted across his lips as he drew it out, letting the blade catch the faint red glow.

“You and I… we’re going to have a very thorough conversation... Not even your master will find you even here,” he murmured, each word dripping with dark promise.

The captive trembled, the chains rattling softly as his terror mounted, desperation clawing at him. Ludus leaned closer still, his voice a breath on the captive’s cheek—a soft, venomous whisper.

“You’ll meet her soon enough. The Mistress… she likes to savor every music you sung, till last.”

And with that, Ludus’s laughter rose, soft and chilling, filling the chamber in a twisted harmony with the captive’s silent despair. The light began to dim, fading back into the dark as the red glow slipped away, leaving only shadows and bid the faintest echo of laughter in the suffocating silence.