It was two days of agony that Kail endured—or so he believed. In truth, time had long since slipped out of his grasp, his mind already numbed by the pain and his spirit crushed. He did not think of anything; he did not dream. He ate when given food; he drank when given water. He screamed when he was cut open, and he wailed when he was burned. Every second was spent in torment as he felt his each inch and fiber of his body being methodically ripped apart. A fleshy lump the size of a fist was under his collarbone, another one on his left hip. The grubs had already grown and would soon meet, working their way through muscle and sinew with an inexorable danger. They were large enough that he could feel their own heartbeat against his own, a slow, foreign pulsing in his body. It was disgusting, revolting. Every time they twitched, every time they tore out a piece of his flesh, he felt it with a sharp spike of agony.

Over and over his muscle and tissue had been ripped apart, hacked apart, shredded and twisted and mutilated beyond compare. And over and over that god’s ichor dripped down his throat, trickled into his empty stomach, and over and over his body betrayed him. Sinew and tendon knitted back together, severed limbs rejoining their bloody stumps. His damned heart kept pumping, even when he desperately wished only that his veins would simply run dry. Death was a release that he craved, and yet over and over it was denied.

Sir, he had remembered pleading. Where are you? Why aren’t you here?

But yet that sneaking voice in the back of his mind grew louder as the torture wore on. He’s gone. He’s left you. He’s gone.

He heard that clacking of nails of stone that meant his jailer was coming, a tired terror dripping through his veins. He did not struggle; had already resigned himself to this fate.There was no future for him here, no promise of life in these. The only question about his death was when.

“A shame boy, that your time is up. I’ll have to hand you over. It’s too bad really, I had so much fun.” It grinned as it twirled a massive cleaver in its hands, the edge abnormally clean in contrast to the bloodstained walls. “I’d feel bad if I didn’t give you a parting gift.”

Kail gave no response, his head bowed, eyes closed in submission.

“Now, now, don’t be like that, boy. I’m sure you’ll like it. What use did you have for your limbs anyways, pinned up like that?”

Heaving out a breath, Kail, croaked out with dry lips, “Why…? What do you...want?” Why do you let me live? Why do you play with me?

It paused, leaning in repulsively close. “Hmm?”

“What...do you want...from me?” Blood trickled down his neck as he spoke, but he hardly noticed.

A pause. Then it leaned back, a disgusting smile stretching across its ruined face. “For my god. For fun.”

Kail twitched, a slight ripple that shook across his face. It did not escape the monster, which smiled in response.

Grabbing Kail by the arm, it pulled him off the wall, the stakes tearing larger holes into his arms and legs from the force. He lay on the ground, gasping for breath, but the thing would not have any of it. Without pausing, it flipped him over onto his back roughly, pulling the stakes out one at a time with a wet squelch. They came out with a sickly popping sound, the blood slowly oozing from the holes in his body.

Grabbing the butcher knife, it gave a smile, sickly in the dim candlelight. “Sorry if I miss a little.” It came down in a blow, striking his ankle and cutting straight through the bone, cracking the tile underneath. Blood gushed like a fountain from the stump, dark black and thick. Grabbing one of the candles off the wall, it crudely shoved the tongues of flame into the wound, flesh sizzling and crackling as it was seared shut. The stench of burned muscle was horrific, yet he had long since grown dulled to such sensation.

Picking up a cupful of the frothing liquid, it forced Kail to drink. The liquid burned down his throat and he struggled to breathe through the pain, spluttering as his flesh struggled knit the flame-scarred wound back together. Without even a moment for respite, the cleaver came down again, striking the same spot and severing the limb once more. Again came the candle, the muscle burning black with char. Again the potion burned down his throat and again his flesh mended itself.

So the gruesome cycle repeated, the sound of hacking and screams an unnerving rhythm that echoed off the walls. After ten or so cycles, a thin band of black grew where the cleaver kept striking, the flesh not quite healing completely. Whatever magic the god’s ichor held, it could not deny the strength of flame. With another five or so repetitions, it became a solid shade of black, thicker than a finger, wrapping like a cuff around his ankle.

It smiled, its broken teeth horrendous and mocking. “Now isn’t that beautiful?”

Not even waiting for a response, it brought the cleaver down again, this time on his fingers, taking off three in a single strike and splitting roughly through half of the fourth. And so the game started again, as each of his joints was repeatedly severed until they were branded with black. The sound of the blade striking flesh grew metronomic, almost hypnotic. Crack, struck the blade against bone. Ssshh, whispered the flames against his skin. His screams were silent to his own ears, long since having faded to the background.

Finally, after an eternity of pain and suffering, the thing set the cleaver down, hardly even out of breath. Rings of black surrounded his limbs, like strange tattoos carved into his own skin. The flesh was brutally mutilated, the surface of the skin pitted and cracked as strands of sinew struggled to hold together muscle and bone. Blood and pus oozed from the wounds, cracking and hardening on the surface to form a grotesque layer. Char crackled on the surface, the skin underneath pink and white.

With a crash, the monster buried the cleaver blade down into the stone, turning to face the door as a woman strode in. His eyes were closed, his breathing hard and his heart about to burst, but he still could feel precisely when she entered; there was an aura, a sensation that stirred the senses, and it accompanied her like a veil. She walked slowly, deliberately, circling around Kail before running a hand down his torn chest. His breathing caught, hitching in his thought at her soft touch. Letting out a low murmur, she turned to speak to the beast.

“Is this the boy you were talking about, Hope?” That voice was enchanting, demurely quiet.

“Yes. He’s managed to stay sane through the whole ordeal. Quite remarkable really.” he responded, not sounding sorry in the least as he spoke. His voice was dry, without warmth, breath fetid and putrid.

“Well isn’t that a shame. Are you giving him to me?” A slender finger traced his new bands, dancing over scarred skin. Every touch brought pain, a sharp shock that danced up his limbs.

“You said you needed a new toy. You last one broke quite some time ago right?”

“Well aren’t you so sweet. I hope this one will last longer.” That voice was so painfully sweet, like warm honey, like summer’s sap.

“Do be careful when you play. The last time you had almost brought down half the city.”

She stuck out her tongue. “You’re no fun, Hope.” Turning to face Kail, she raised her palm up, tendrils of pink mist swirling into the air. There was a fine dust that clung to her fingers, pluming into fog the instant that it touched the air. “Come along now, little boy.” With a gentle puff, she blew the swirling haze towards him, his mind suddenly feeling groggy with a single breath. She smiled, voice becoming distorted to his ears. “We’ll have such fun together.” His abused body offered no protest as his mind tumbled into blackness.

Kail swam in and out of consciousness, his mind feeling like molten lead as he vaguely felt himself being dragged down a twisting spiral of stairs and hallways. Time clawed by, and he could hardly care for its passing. He did not know how many days had passed, he did not know how many days he had yet to live. At some point he knew that he had left the sewers—the unbearable stench that had burned into his nostrils during his torture had finally left him.

He woke once to find himself in a tub, the dried blood and filth being scraped off him by a small boy. The child’s touch felt soothing, soft, a gentle comfort long-forgotten by his torment. It hurt to even stare at the light, so he closed his eyes and felt the water around him. He merely exhaled deeply as the child scrubbed at his skin, the warm water soothing his aching body and the pleasure soon letting him drift off to sleep.

Another time he roused from slumber to feel something against his mouth. A voice whispered in his ear, telling him to open. He complied, feeling a warm broth trickle down his throat and warm his stomach. His head felt groggy, throbbing with pain, and before he knew it he was gone again.

He dreamed during his sleep, dreaming of home in Maris Tor. He dreamed of Sir, and the promises that he had made. To live a life Sir would be proud of. How distant those thoughts were, now. He dreamed about the to hopes that he had, of the hero bathed in golden light he had wanted to be. He dreamed of the sunlight that had warmed his face eons ago. Had it been so long ago? Since when did his flesh feel so old?

Since when had his heart been filled with such doubt?

It was all just a dream. They were nothing more than smoke now, slipping through his fingers.

He felt blackness eating at the edges of his dreams, the visions slowly going black. He felt the light fade until he could see no more, only that same darkness that that swallowed everything. The voices whispered to him, offering him power, bidding him to take it. It was ancient, eternal, archaic, omnipotent. He felt like an ant standing in the shadow of a giant, like a blade of grass in the heart of a storm. He heard the voice of a woman, sweet and soothing. It told him to take the power, to accept it. Please, it begged, gliding gently over his heart.

Yet he could not. The darkness repulsed him, sickened every fiber of his flesh. It did not belong, and he rejected it with every bit of strength he had left in his ruined body. Please, it begged, and he pushed away with a feverish strength. He pulled away from its thrall, waking in a cold sweat.

With a gasp, he opened his eyes for the first time in how long he did not know. And yet now, alone in the dark, even that small comfort was stolen from him. He felt a sinking in his stomach: he could not see anything. The blackness that had eaten his dreams surrounded him as well. He felt fear that consumed all thought, sending him into a blind panic. With aching arms, he waved his hands in front of his face, seeing no motion. Something was off. Feeling his face, he felt nothing where his eyes once were, only empty sockets of bone. Scarred flesh outlined the ruined cavities as he felt his arms fall limp to his sides, the truth cold and uncaring.

He was blind.

He did not know how long he lay there with his spirit broken. He did not know how long he would have to wait for his suffering to end. He heard a clicking on stone, a sound that echoed off of walls he could not see. A light breath fluttered on his neck, nails tracing down his chest. A voice whispered in his ear, painfully sweet: “So you wake, sweet boy. I’m sad. You rejected my gift. You punishment is only fitting for such discourtesy.” Her fingers ran gently up his chest, up his neck, tracing the outline of his sallow cheeks before feeling the empty sockets of his eyes. “Such a shame. You had such beautiful blue eyes.” she murmured, her voice almost mocking to his ears. “Blue like the sky. Such a shame.”

He heard more clicking as she walked around him, her fingers tracing his flesh. “You won’t thank me? I healed your wounds.” She paused as she waited for an answer.

He moved his mouth, but no words came out. His throat was dry, unused to the work, his lips cracked with blood. His throat worked, tongue forming words that felt foreign in his mouth. His throat was aflame, his flesh already charred. In a dry whisper, he spoke, his voice sounding old and broken even to him. “Kill me now.”

She chuckled, a sweet sound that honeyed his ears. “Dear boy, I won’t be granting you that wish any time soon.” Gliding her fingers on his chest, she started to trace a light circle over his heart. “Even with what Hope has done to you, you still refused my gift.” Her fingers started dancing faster, gliding over scars and muscle.

“You will accept my gift—our god’s gift.” Her nails broke the skin now, and he felt hot blood trickling down his chest. “There’s no fun in killing you. No, I want to break you.” Her fingers slowed now. “I will give you pleasure and pain unimaginable. I will drive you to the brink of madness. And when you have committed sins unimaginable and stare at yourself in the mirror, only then will I grant you your wish.”

Without warning, she plunged her nails deep into his chest. He screamed in pain as she pulled them out, five finger forming holes in a perfect star over his heart. “And then your stalwart heart will break. And then you will accept our god’s gift. Dear child, I’m not going to kill you.

“I’m only going to make you into a monster.”