The instant the door closed behind him, Dydra's strength collapsed entirely. Her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, arms wrapping tightly around herself as though she could hold her body together by sheer force. Tears poured freely from her eyes, hot and uncontrollable, soaking into the coat clutched against her chest. Disgust churned violently in her stomach, rising until it burned her throat. No matter how hard she tried to shake it off, she could still feel it—the ghost of a tongue against her neck, the violation lingering on her skin like a stain she could not scrub away.
Her breathing grew erratic as she loosened her grip and raised trembling hands to her throat. Her fingers curled into claws and raked viciously at her skin, nails tearing through flesh until blood welled up beneath them. Pain exploded across her senses, sharp and punishing, but it did nothing to dull the filth she felt crawling beneath her skin. She screamed, the sound ripping from her chest as her body shook violently, her sobs refusing to stop.
"Ahhhhh!"
The cry echoed uselessly through the room, swallowed by stone walls that did not care. Even bleeding, even shaking, she still felt unclean. Her chest heaved as rage bled into her despair, and her thoughts twisted sharply toward Oryen. This was her fault. All of it. If she hadn't dragged her into this cursed castle, if she hadn't insisted on helping her, none of this would have happened. Why? Why her? What had she done to deserve this endless punishment?
She collapsed flat against the cold, rugged floor, staring blankly at the ceiling as pain and betrayal swam in her eyes. Her fingers trembled as they reached up to her neck, yanking the scarf free in one furious motion and tossing it aside. Ever since she had crossed paths with that old woman, nothing but suffering had followed. That witch had acted on her own accord, digging up memories Dydra had buried long ago, memories she had locked away to survive. Wicked woman. Cursed witch. She had ruined everything.
A sudden thought struck her, sharp and electrifying. She pushed herself upright, breathing hard, and lifted her index finger toward her tear-streaked eyes. The woman had said she was a witch. If that was true, then didn't that mean she had power? Could she hurt her? Could she make her pay? Anger surged through her veins, fueling her trembling limbs as she rose to her feet. She marched straight to the door, vengeance burning behind her eyes. She would find that woman and teach her a lesson she would never forget.
Her hand closed around the doorknob and twisted sharply. The door did not move.
Panic stabbed into her chest. Locked. It was locked from the outside.
Her breath hitched as realization dawned. Had the elite done this? Had he trapped her here? His words replayed cruelly in her mind, clear and deliberate.
"The only reason you'd reject the offer is if you want me in the bath with you."
Her lips trembled as anger twisted her expression. Was that it? Had he saved her only to claim her afterward? Was this his intention all along? Fear flooded her veins, ice-cold and paralyzing. She clenched her fists and slammed them against the door, again and again, the impact sending pain shooting up her arms.
"No," she cried desperately. "Not again. Not again!"
Her palms struck the wood relentlessly as she screamed for help, her voice cracking under the strain. "Hello! Is anyone there?!" The silence that answered her was merciless. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing. The coat slipped from her shoulders and she caught it quickly, wrapping it around herself once more as though it were the only thing keeping her grounded. Turning her back against the heavy oak door, she slid down until she hit the floor, curling inward as her sobs returned, quieter now, broken and exhausted. She had to leave. She had to escape. But where would she go? How could she survive when every path led back to pain?
Not far from the royal castle, heavy footsteps cut through the thick forest undergrowth. A shadow moved with purpose, heading toward a building hidden so well among the trees it appeared to be part of the forest itself. Guards patrolled the area, but the moment they recognized the approaching figure, they bowed deeply.
"Your Highness," they greeted in unison.
Leonard did not respond. His hands remained tucked into his pockets as he strode forward, his presence alone commanding silence. One guard moved to open the door, but Leonard had already stepped inside, vanishing into complete darkness. There were no torches, no candles, no light of any kind. Yet he walked without hesitation, his boots echoing sharply against stone as the stench of rusted metal and old blood filled the air.
He reached a heavy iron door and opened it, revealing a dimly lit dungeon with torches flickering weakly along the walls. His steps slowed as he approached a cell, his gaze settling on the broken figure inside. The man lay sprawled across the uneven floor, soaked in fresh blood, his body riddled with injuries that left him barely conscious. A guard standing nearby immediately produced a set of keys, unlocking the cell with trembling hands.
Leonard stepped inside, his midnight eyes glowing faintly with restrained fury. He crouched down, studying the prisoner with chilling calm. It was Hugh. His jaw tightened.
"Bring me a wooden stake and a sharp knife," he said softly.
The guard obeyed without hesitation, placing the items carefully into the prince's outstretched palm. Anyone unfamiliar with the crown prince might have wondered what he intended to do with such simple tools. But the guard knew. Having served in this place for nearly a decade, he understood exactly what was about to unfold, and the knowledge made his stomach twist.
Wood was a vampire's greatest weakness. A simple thing grown from the earth, yet devastating beyond measure. To a vampire, wood burned like molten lava, searing flesh and bone alike.
Leonard used the knife to peel away the bark, discarding it carelessly before setting the blade aside. He reached out and seized his prisoner's wrist, isolating the index finger with deliberate precision. Then, without warning, he drove the wooden shard beneath the fingernail.
A scream tore from Hugh's throat as his body convulsed violently. He thrashed and clawed at the floor, trying desperately to pull away, but the crown prince's grip was unyielding. Pain exploded through his nerves, blinding and unbearable.
"M-my prince!" he sobbed. "Forgive me! I didn't know you were acquainted with her! If I had known—"
His pleas dissolved into desperate cries as tears streamed down his face. The pain was relentless, consuming every thought. Leonard's voice, however, remained calm—almost pleased—as he hummed softly.
"Mmm."
The sound was low and warm, deceptively gentle, but those who knew him understood the truth. This was only the beginning. With one hand still holding the prisoner's finger in place, Leonard picked up the wooden shard again and drove it deep into his knee joint.
A bloodcurdling scream echoed through the dungeon as agony tore through the man's body. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, his eyes squeezing shut as hope slipped away. If it had been metal, if it had been anything but wood, he might have survived. But wood was merciless.
To a vampire, it was death.
And Leonard was far from finished.