They found him at the far end of the deeper section, where the corridors narrowed and the silence grew heavier, as though even sound struggled to move freely in that place. The air carried the scent of iron and damp stone, and before they even saw him, they heard it. The sharp crack of a whip echoed through the corridor, followed by another, each strike precise, controlled, and unhurried, as though the act itself had become routine rather than punishment.
When they turned the final corner, the sight settled in fully.
The emperor of Rus was restrained at the center of the cell, his arms bound high above him, his body suspended just enough to keep him from collapsing completely. His back was ruined, flesh torn open in layered wounds that told the story of repeated torment, not a single act but a cycle carried out over time. Blood traced uneven paths down his body, some fresh, some dried, all of it evidence that this was not new, not sudden, but systematic.
