How long had it been? Days? Weeks? No… it must have been longer.
I think… months.
I haven't had anything to drink. I'm so thirsty…
With no sunlight in the dungeon, Princess Ivara had long lost track of time. The truth, however, was crueler than her guesses: it had been over three months.
For those three months she had been given a small meal once every two days, and water only every four. As a deity, she didn't need food the same way humans did—her body lived off the magic within her, even with the shackles suppressing it.
But water… water she still needed.
A need she felt burning in her throat every second she remained alive.
The door creaked open. Her torturer entered.
The man was short, obese, wrapped in a long dark cloak that hid most of his body except his bulging stomach. His eyes—dark brown and slightly unfocused—burned with an unmistakable madness. His short black hair receded at the temples, and his round shaved face stretched into a carefree smile.
He set his tools on the steel table and approached.
"Well hello, my beautiful Ivy… You look even better than the first day we met."
Ivara gave no response, no eye contact, no reaction. Silence was her only form of defiance.
After a few moments, the man chuckled.
"Not in a talking mood today? Well, it's not like you ever speak. But moaning—those I remember." His grin widened. "Shall we get started, Princess Ivy?"
His name was Dean. She had learned that over months of pain.
He approached with a scalpel gleaming under the lanterns and dragged the blade deep across her forearm.
Her hands had long since been tied in front of the chair so he could see every twitch, every reflex. Her feet remained shackled.
As the wound began to slowly heal—her deity physiology stitching it closed—Dean crouched in front of her, fascinated.
"That never gets old," he breathed. "The others don't heal when I slice them… but you… you're special."
His smile twisted into something darker.
"My only wish is to see what your son can do."
Like hell you will, you lunatic bastard.
Dean grinned as if he heard her thoughts.
"Oh yes… I will. You should bring him to me next time. I feel he and I could become… very good friends. Especially if he has your little tricks."
Ivara didn't speak to him. Not once. Yet he carried on conversations with himself every time.
He really is a lunatic.
I have to get out. I can't wait for them anymore.
Dean continued his routine—slicing, stabbing. Each session ended with him cutting her tendons at her wrists, hands, and feet. Her once white dress had long since turned a permanent, deep crimson.
After he finished, he allowed her water.
When her lips touched the cup, she drank greedily.
But this time… he gave her no food at all.
When he finally left, her wounds healed rapidly—as always—leaving behind perfect skin, no blemishes, no scars.
Only the dark circles under her eyes betrayed how little she had slept these past months.
After Dean left, Ivara managed to rest. She slept for roughly six hours before a sudden noise outside jolted her awake. A riot. Shouting and Armor clattering.
She had no sense of day or night anymore—only the schedule of torment told her time. And she didn't know how long she had slept.
A guard outside shouted for the others to abandon their posts and help settle the disturbance. Ivara listened as the footsteps of armored soldiers ran up the stairs.
The dungeon became silent.
A few minutes passed.
Then the door opened again.
A man stepped inside, clad in the same armor as the guard from before. His helmet hid his face—but she recognized him instantly by his tall, strong build.
He rushed to her, gripped the chains, and broke the locks with his bare hands. Then he lifted her onto his back.
The man dashed out of the cell, moving deeper into the castle with urgent speed. His voice, muffled by the helmet, trembled with worry.
"Ivy… are you okay?"
She ignored the question. Her voice was weak, but steady.
"Hey, Matt… Where are you taking me?"
Matthew hesitated. He wanted to ask her again if she was alright, but he swallowed it down.
"Well," he said lowly, "the rest of the cohort is inside the castle. They fed me information about your location and the safest escape route…"He adjusted his grip and ran faster."So in short—the sewers."
Despite the situation, Ivara let out a short, breathless laugh.
With what little strength she had left, she whispered:
"What about… Azazul…?"
Matthew turned his head to answer.
But she was already asleep—gone into a deep, exhausted slumber on his back.
He faced forward again and spoke softly, almost to himself:
"Rest now. We'll pick up where we left off... once we're out of here. You did well, Ivy."
With that, he summoned the full extent of his magic, and sped deeper into the castle's bowels—faster than before.