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Smoke and Sin

Smoke and Sin

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    Reads 193
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    Votes 9
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    Parts 5
WpMetadataReadMatureOngoing36m
WpMetadataNoticeLast published Sun, Aug 12, 2018
WpInfo
Fiction
Fantasy
" It's a sin" he whispered, his words so cool and mesmerizing; his breathe tickling her neck, fingers trailing down her bare arm gliding across its smooth surface every moment claiming it for his own. " it's a sin darling that you don't use your power for good." It took all or her willpower to occlude the inhuman desire burning through her body. "Good?" she demanded. She exhaled staring deep into his stormy eyes, "you want me for greed." His smile was slimy and wet, his lips trailing down her neck, lips barely grazing the fine skin, " didn't you know? We all do." ▪️▪️▪️⚪ The world is consumed by the true gods of earth. Countries divided against each other to dawn of their true nature. A court of the Seven Lords rule over their prized possessions, society at its worst. War at a constant, and the concept of morals long forgotten the people break through to find themselves a life style broken and divided. With kingdoms unsundered and the vast hiarchy under the Sin's rule, some are caught under their most influencal paws. Malice, the fourth woman of royal Court is seconds away from being queen of her kingdom. With her people unsure of her and unhinged, insane responsibilities on her shoulders she fights for what she see's as right. Certain to follow Greeds path. Only to discover that what she wanted was never there to begin with.
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(TWs: gore, abuse, sexual abuse, cursing) Why does he still breathe? Why is he kept alive in this shadowed purgatory where time has no meaning, and screams are swallowed by the walls? His cell is a cage, his life a cruel experiment, and his mind a battlefield. Questions claw at him relentlessly: Who is he? What is he? Why does this torment exist? The walls bleed stories of others-lost souls whose cries still linger, haunting the air. His own voice has grown hoarse from endless screams, his body a canvas of scars, a map of suffering that tells no answers, only pain. Every day is a ritual of degradation, where faceless captors toy with his humanity, stripping him of it piece by agonizing piece. The only constant is the endless cycle of questions. Why him? Why the torture? What is their purpose? He clings to the faintest memories of a time before-fleeting images of warmth, love, a face he cannot quite recall. But even those are slipping away, devoured by the void growing inside him. In this relentless, suffocating darkness, where hope is a distant memory, only one question remains: When will the game end, and what will be left of him when it does?

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