The dungeon stank of damp stone, old blood, and despair. Chains rattled as Lucas shifted, but the heavy iron cuffs biting into his wrists and ankles didn’t allow much movement. Every breath felt like fire, every heartbeat like punishment.
And every day, Draka came.
Like clockwork.
His towering figure would descend the stone steps, cloaked in the scent of dominance and death, the silver vial of wolfsbane clenched between his fingers. He didn't speak much, he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to silence the dungeon.
Lucas had long stopped begging. He knew it made no difference. Draka had no mercy left for him. Every time the wolfsbane was injected into his veins, he screamed. And every time, Draka watched without blinking, his expression unreadable.
“This is just the beginni
