THE DYING AND THE DAMNED
Vivienne's POV
The world tilted as I hit the ground, my knees slamming hard against the stone. Pain exploded through my legs, but I barely gasped. The air in the dungeon was dense with rot and the stink of sweat and despair.
"Welcome to your new home," one of the guards sneered, his voice a disgusting mix of amusement and cruelty.
I braced myself on shaking hands, my arms burning with the effort. Before I could lift my head, a boot cracked against my ribs. I collapsed again with a strangled breath, pain radiating through my side like lightning.
Laughter.
Then retreating footsteps.
The iron door screeched shut behind them, sealing the stench and suffering inside.
I stayed there, curled on my side, breaths shallow and jagged. Every inch of me ached. My ribs screamed, my back throbbed, and my stomach twisted in knots but I wouldn't break. Not here and not for them.
When the footsteps finally faded, I dragged myself upright onto trembling elbows.
The dungeon stretched out before me, lit only by a few dim torches that barely touched the thick shadows. What I saw twisted my stomach into tighter knots.
She-wolves. Some slumped against walls, others curled up on the floor like broken things. A few hanged on to their silent, malnourished children. The air reeked of their filth and hopelessness. These women had been here too long.
Most didn't have the strength or will power to look at me. The few that did had hollow eyes.
I crawled toward the nearest wall, where a dented tray sat beside rusted bars. A bowl of cold, watery gruel, a chunk of stale bread, and something that might've once been meat sat untouched.
My stomach growled. Hunger gnawed at me.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, lifted the bowl, and took a shaky spoonful. It tasted like sour glue but settled the emptiness just enough to keep going. The bread scraped against my dry throat like gravel, but I choked it down. I didn't touch the meat. I wouldn't.
A weak cough broke the silence.
I turned toward the sound—and that was when I saw her.
In the far corner, half-wrapped in a shredded blanket, lay a girl. Sweat slicked her face, her breathing shallow and rattling. A festering wound marred her ribs, swollen and oozing pus.
She couldn't have been much older than me and she was dying.
I moved toward her without thinking. My body screamed in protest, but I ignored it. I knelt beside her, touched her forehead—burning. Her fever was eating her alive.
She whimpered, barely aware of my presence.
"Hey," I whispered. "Can you hear me?"
Her lips moved, but no sound followed.
I leaned closer. Nothing. She didn't even have the strength to speak.
I looked around the cell. No water, no medicine. Nothing.
Helplessness clawed at me, and I hated it.
The other women just watched. Some with pity. Most with the emptiness of people who had learned to stop hoping.
"She needs help," I said quietly.
No one responded.
I turned back to the girl. "I'm here," I whispered, though it felt like a lie. We were all trapped. All helpless but saying it still mattered.
Then the dungeon door groaned open.
Everything stilled.
Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
I didn't need to look to know who it was.
Balthazar.
His presence hit like a cold wave. The stench of his cologne couldn't mask the rot that clung to him. He descended the stairs, tall and pale, eyes gleaming with that sick madness he wore like a crown.
"Vivienne," he purred. "How are we adjusting?"
I didn't answer. My fists curled in my lap to stop the trembling.
He scanned the cell until his gaze landed on the dying girl beside me. His lip curled.
"Shame," he muttered. "They break so easily."
Then he looked at me. "But not you. Not yet."
He smiled, the kind that made my skin crawl.
"You'll need your strength soon," he added, like he was offering advice.
My stomach turned, but I kept my face blank.
He didn't like that.
He stepped closer. The heat of his madness pressed against my skin.
"You're not afraid yet but you will be."
Still, I said nothing.
With a snap of his fingers, two guards lunged forward—not for me but for another girl. A redhead. Young. Quiet.
She didn't scream. Didn't fight.
Her eyes were empty, like she had already died inside.
As they dragged her away, Balthazar turned to me.
"Not tonight, sweetheart," he whispered. "But you… you're special. You'll be my favorite."
And then he was gone.
The gate slammed shut behind him.
Silence returned but it was a different kind now. Deeper. Heavier.
The girl beside me whimpered again, and I turned back to her, wiping her brow with my sleeve.
She needed more than I could give.
I bit my lip hard, trying to stop the sting in my eyes.
Suddenly, movement.
An old woman crept from the shadows. Her hair was tangled and grey, her skin loose over frail bones but her eyes—her eyes still had something left in them.
"Do not waste your kindness." she murmured, her voice rough as gravel. "She won't last the night."
I swallowed hard, my throat dry and aching. "She might if we help her."
The woman sighed, glancing around as if checking for unseen eyes.
She gently pulled out a rag and dipped it into a chipped clay bowl.
"Here," she rasped, wringing it out and handing it over. "It's not much but it'll cool her fever—for now."
"Thank you," I whispered, pressing the damp cloth to the girl's skin. She stirred, murmured something I couldn't catch.
"What's her name?" I asked.
The woman shook her head. "We don't use names here. What's the point?"
I met her gaze. "Names matter."
She matters," I said quietly. "We all do."
She studied me for a long moment. "You still have hope. That'll fade."
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
Instead, I turned back to the dying girl.
I didn't know her. I couldn't save her but I wasn't going to stop trying.
Even if it broke me.
Even if she doesn't make it.
Because if I gave up now, if I stopped caring, stopped fighting—then I'd be just like them. Just another caged soul waiting to be forgotten and I wasn't ready to disappear.