The air inside the subterranean temple had grown thick and heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the oppressive weight of ancient, malevolent magic. Zeven hung suspended from the central iron pillar, his wrists raw and bleeding where the enchanted restraints dug into his skin. His body ached with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, yet his gaze remained locked on the stone altar a few meters away. Upon that altar lay Lyra, her form still and pale, bound by thick iron chains that pulsed with a dark, violet light. The Alpha stood over her, his silhouette framed by the flickering, erratic torches that lined the chamber walls, his face set in a mask of cold, unwavering resolve.
"Do you truly think your pathetic resistance matters, Zeven?" the Alpha said, his voice deep and res
