The air was thick with damp rot, the scent of old blood clinging to the stone like a sickness. A single torch guttered weakly in the far corner of the underground prison, its light barely reaching the iron-barred cells lining the walls.
In one of them, Lady Veyla, wife to Lord Veylan, sat huddled in a corner, her once-elegant dress tattered, hair matted to her face with sweat and grime. Her hands trembled, nails bloodied from frantic scratching against the rough stone. She wept, her voice a thin, broken thing in the cold dark.
Her mind had frayed to its last threads. The memory of her son's death — his screams, the wet, awful sound of his body collapsing against the table — played again and again in her head like a cruel lullaby. And now, the terror of what might happen to her daughters pressed on her chest like a hand of iron.
Tap. Tap.
Footsteps.
She stiffened, instinctively crawling to the farthest corner of the cell, her shoulders pressed against damp stone.
A figure appeared outside her cell. Cloaked in black, violet-tinted armor gleaming like oil in the flickering torchlight. A scythe rested against her shoulder. The woman's obsidian hair framed a face beautiful and unfeeling, violet eyes fixed on her with cold amusement.
Envy.
"Veyla," the woman crooned sweetly, like an old friend dropping in for tea. "Why, oh why is this happening to you, I wonder?"
Veyla clutched at her head, shaking it. Why? Why us? Why my son?
Envy crouched by the bars, her tone light, conversational. "You want to know what you did wrong? Nothing, dear. Not a single thing. And yet your boy died anyway. Funny, isn't it?"
She let the words hang like a noose around Veyla's sanity.
"I didn't want this either. As your brave boy said — revenge is petty, short-sighted. But he still died. And it wasn't because of you, or your sins. No."
Envy's violet gaze gleamed. "It was because of your beloved husband. My master. Your children will follow, because of him."
The words shattered something inside Veyla. She began to sob again — no, not sob. Laugh. A raw, rasping thing as she clawed at her face and arms, skin breaking beneath her nails.
"It's him," she whispered through bloodied lips. "His fault. His fault."
Envy's smile widened. Pleased.
She unlocked the cell and stepped inside, crouching low, draping a hand around the broken woman's shoulders like a lover.
"I'll tell you a little secret, Veyla," she whispered, lips brushing the woman's ear. "There's one path left to salvation for a wretch like you. One door out of this hell."
Veyla twitched.
Envy's voice dropped, soft as silk, cruel as a knife. "Kill them, dear. Your daughters. Your husband. And then, take your own life. Shed this world's filth, and perhaps… just perhaps… the gods will pity you. You'll see your son again. Hear him call your name in the light. That's what you want, isn't it?"
The dagger appeared in Envy's hand, its slender blade gleaming like liquid midnight. She placed it into Veyla's bloodied palms.
"There now," Envy cooed, standing and turning toward the door. "Be a good mother, won't you?"
Veyla clutched the dagger, tears streaking down her face. A wet, fragile smile twisted her lips.
Envy left the cell without another word, the door clicking shut behind her.
And in the dark, the whispers of madness bloomed.
* * * * *
The stone walls of the prison sweated with cold. The scent of iron and rot clung to the air, so thick it stuck to the tongue. A torch sputtered dimly outside the cells, barely keeping the darkness at bay.
Lord Veylan paced in his cramped cell, his hair disheveled, blood staining the fine sleeves of his once-pristine clothes. His voice was a sharp, fraying thing in the suffocating gloom.
"Fools… all of them," he muttered. "Do they have any idea who I am? What power I hold? I'll have them quartered. Burn their filthy cities to ash. Cassandra—no, Envy—she'll beg for mercy when I remind her what she owes me. And that demon bitch…"
He sneered. The image of Azrah's unnerving beauty flashed through his mind. A prize to be taken. Bound. Sold. He laughed aloud.
A faint sound broke his ramblings.
A presence.
Azrah stood silently beyond the bars, her crimson eyes impassive in the flickering light.
Veylan flinched.
"What are you staring at? You dare stand there and not speak, you wretched creature? Do you know who I am?"
Azrah said nothing.
Veylan's voice rose, thick with arrogance. "Envy hasn't killed me because she knows I'm too valuable. I have influence. Connections. She'll need me eventually, mark my words. You—you should be begging me to spare you when this is over."
Still, nothing.
Veylan's bluster faltered. His throat went dry.
And then — footsteps.
A figure staggered into view. Blood-matted hair, tattered dress, streaked face. Veyla.
He rushed to the bars as Azrah unlocked the door.
"Veyla! Gods, you're alive! Come here, it's alright now, it's alright…"
She collapsed into his arms, trembling, breath ragged, streaked with blood. Thin lines scored her arms, some self-inflicted, others old and scabbed.
Veylan stroked her hair, murmuring comforts.
"I promise I'll fix this," he said. "They'll pay for what they did to our boy. I'll—"
A sudden, searing pain.
Veylan stiffened. His eyes widened as something sharp drove between his ribs.
He shoved Veyla away and staggered back, staring at the dagger buried deep in his side.
"Y-You…?"
She laughed.
A high, broken, gurgling sound that made the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Azrah stepped aside, unblinking.
Veylan raised a trembling hand to strike, but his vision blurred. His limbs grew heavy. The poison was fast. Blood leaked from his mouth and eyes, his throat burning.
Veyla's face twisted in a manic grin as she drove the dagger in again, again, again.
"For him," she hissed.
Veylan's body sagged to the floor. The world tilted.
Veyla, panting, grabbed his bloodied hand and dipped a trembling finger in the pooling blood. On the wall, she scrawled crude letters in crimson:
THE SINS AWAKEN
A final, unsteady smile crossed her face. She slumped to her knees, clutching the dagger, and whispered to the void:
"I'm coming, my boy."
The blade bit deep.
Silence.
From the shadows beyond the cell, Envy watched.
She leaned against the stone archway, scythe resting lazily against her shoulder, a satisfied smirk curling her lips.
"Predictable," she murmured.
Azrah approached and bowed low. "It is done, my lady."
Envy chuckled, turning away. "Good. Clean this up. The stage isn't set yet."
* * * * *
The manor reeked of blood and ruin. The walls, once pristine white stone, were now streaked with crimson handprints and black, congealed stains. The night air carried the metallic tang of death, thick and oppressive.
Azrah, the demoness with skin like polished obsidian and hair falling like a silk curtain down her back, moved through the carnage with unhurried grace. Her crimson eyes glimmered in the torchlight as she stepped into a small chamber tucked away from the slaughter.
Inside, a girl sat huddled on a velvet couch — a wretched thing with bruised skin, matted hair, and eyes that had seen too much. She flinched when Azrah approached but didn't cry out. She knew better than to scream.
"Come," Azrah murmured, her voice smooth and indifferent. "Lady Envy summons you."
The girl's stomach clenched. She knew what this meant. The final hour. The long walk to death.
Still, she obeyed.
Azrah led her down the corridors, past shattered bodies of servants and guards alike. The floors were slick with blood. Windows shattered. The distant sound of Morthan's blade cleaving flesh still echoed through the manor.
No one was spared.
They reached a pair of tall glass doors leading out to a garden bathed in moonlight. Pale roses glimmered silver in the dark, the air thick with the scent of crushed petals and fresh death.
And there, at the heart of the garden, sat Envy.
She reclined elegantly in a high-backed chair, obsidian hair gleaming beneath the moon's glow, violet eyes half-lidded as she sipped from a delicate porcelain cup. The scene was breathtaking in its cruelty — a portrait of beauty draped in blood.
Azrah guided the girl to a chair opposite Envy and silently withdrew.
"Sit," Envy said, her voice far too kind.
The girl obeyed.
Envy regarded her for a moment, then asked, "Your name, girl."
"Mira," the girl whispered.
"Mira," Envy repeated, testing the name like a foreign word. "Were you born a slave, or did the world break you later?"
Mira hesitated, trembling. Envy waved a hand. "You don't need to answer. Not if you don't wish to."
Mira's voice cracked. "Why… why are you kind to me?"
Envy smiled — not cruelly, but not warmly either. "Because I was you. Not so long ago."
Mira's lips quivered, the floodgate opening. She told her story in halting words. Born in a village near the eastern valleys. Sold by her parents when a famine left too many mouths to feed. Beaten by the man who bought her. Her brother killed when he tried to stop it. Passed from owner to owner until she landed here.
Tears streaked her dirt-smeared face as she spoke of her brother's laughter, of a little wooden carving he made her that she kept hidden until it was taken away.
And when the last word was spoken, she reached for the cup before her and drank.
Envy stood, crossing the distance with soundless grace. She knelt beside Mira, drawing the girl's hand into hers.
"Come," she said, voice soft. "Walk with me."
They wandered the moonlit garden, Envy pointing out blooms and constellations, reciting old tales of stars long dead and gods who never cared. Mira clung to her, absorbing every word, her fear fading for the first time in years.
At last, they lay together in a bed of white roses, the petals cool against their skin. Mira's small hand gripped Envy's.
"Thank you," she whispered. And with a faint, content sigh — her last breath slipped from her lips.
Envy let the silence settle.
Azrah appeared beside her, Morthan looming behind like a living shadow.
"She's dead," Azrah remarked.
Envy didn't move. "Good."
"You could've killed her hours ago. Why show… weakness?"
Envy's lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. "It wasn't weakness. I killed what was left of my humanity through her. I let it die… in peace."
She rose from the flowers, brushing moon-pale petals from her hair.
"We're done here," Envy said, voice turning to steel. "But the world isn't. Chaos brews, and I intend to watch it rise."
Azrah and Morthan bowed low.
And under the silver sky, the garden bloomed, the scent of blood mingling with roses.