📘 BLURB
Is it possible...to create a world where people will live forever? A world where you and I no longer fear death?
Zenvix Nighvicto, prince to the fallen nation of conquerors, knows the answer.
Beset by the loss of his homeland, he set...
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Cold...
So cold....
Haven't I.....been here....
before?
The familiar sensation of iciness shackled his feet, or was it the smell of fearful nostalgia that rooted him?
The smell of rusted iron.
The smell of pee-and-hay, musky and heavy.
The smell of agony.
It all came back to him.
The boy moved his feet....shackled. Hell, why wouldn't his body budge? Darkness surrounded his senses. It engulfed him, it pressed on him....it frightened him.
He knew...he knew this damnable place. He's back again.
As what court officials close to the throne will discuss in hushed whispers, this place is "The Cell". A clandestine prison chamber hidden in the nation's underground dungeons.
Or as described appropriately by the Monarch, the "Room of Repentance".
Finally, the boy's ears picked up the lowest whisper.
"Zenvix..."
The whisper grew.
"Zenvix."
The voice came into sharp clarity, a voice that struck fear into his heart. A voice that dripped acid with every word.
"Father...?"
"Boy, I have given you fair warning. The rule of three mistakes, you will do well to remember it."
"One mistake - a warning, twice - a beating, and thrice...."
The King's voice trailed off.
"Yes, father," the boy croaked, his voice barely audible. He already knew what was coming.
"You are from a proud lineage, a bloodline that has once held vast empires in its grasp," the King continued.
"Mistakes are not tolerated, boy. The rule of three mistakes is your training, but one mistake on the battlefield may likely be your last..."
"And will become the last of the Nighvictorian legacy."
The King's strapping stature emerged into view. In his rugged hands held the long and sinister shape of a bullwhip.
"Our legacy." He finished.
The boy's eyes widened, his eyes darting frantically between the imposing figure and the savage tool in his hand.
"Father...please..."
He struggled.
His hands chafed against the manacles that held his limbs in an iron grip.
