I looked at the man who entered.
He wrinkled his nose and raised a silk handkerchief to his face. One of the servants moved quickly, spraying perfume into the air like it could erase blood soaked into stone.
He didn't belong here. Too clean. Too polished. That kind of man who flinched at dirt, not pain.
Our eyes met.
I didn't know him. But the moment I looked, something in this body flinched. My hand trembled – not from fear. Something older. Memory buried in muscle. A warning etched into bone.
His gaze twisted.
He snapped his fingers. A servant stepped forward and struck me.
Hard.
My head snapped sideways. I didn't make a sound.
"How dare you look at me directly," the man said. He sat down as another servant placed a clean chair behind him – like this was theater and I was the act.
I stayed silent.
I was starting to understand. This must be the man who hurt the girl before me.
The slaps continued, then turned into kicks. One landed square against my ribs. I forced what little pnevma I had to the impact point. It barely helped, but it kept me conscious.
I clenched my first.
Too weak to fight. But not too weak to watch. To remember.
The servant pulled back when I glared at him.
Even like this, I could still make someone hesitate.
The noble froze.
His expression cracked.
"You… heretic."
He stood, stumbling a step back. "Bring back. She's possessed again."
My eyes narrowed.
He noticed. Not exactly me, but something changed enough to rattle him.
"But what if the Baron finds out?" the servant asked, hesitant.
"Did you see that look?" the noble snapped. "That was the devil inside her. It's going to destroy us all. We have to end it before it spreads. I knew it. The day would come. The devil would return after the sky turned red."
The servants didn't argue.
Rough hands grabbed me, forced me down, and shoved me into a thick cloth sack.
The motion was jarring. I let them.
This might be the chance I'd been waiting for.
As they hauled me upward, I shut my eyes and listened. The shift in air told me we'd left the underground. The damp, stale rot of the cell gave way to an open breeze. Distant sounds – horses, wheels, muffled voices – filtered through the cloth.
A carriage.
Good. Time to think.
I drew inward, stabilizing what little pnevma I'd rebuilt. I didn't try to fight. Not yet. Just enough to stay aware.
To feel the pattern of movement.
The terrain.
Every bump and turn.
Then we stopped.
The sack tore open. Light hit me like a blade. My eyes burned. I squinted against it, blinking fast.
They dragged me out and dropped me hard onto something smooth and cold. Polished stone, maybe marble. My shoulders screamed. My knees buckled.
I didn't make a sound.
Movement around me – quiet steps, practiced hands. I counted six servants. Two guards stood at the door. They didn't move, didn't blink.
Then the servants began to undress me.
"Wait –"
My voice cracked, rough and dry. I barely made a sound.
No one paused.
They tore the filthy rags from my body. My arms moved instinctively to shield myself but the chain held. Cold metal burned against my skin. My breath caught.
I stood, exposed. Cold. Bound. Watched.
I had survived monster raids. Trained under falling ice. Fought beasts emerged from pnevma storms, mouths full of flame and bone.
But this was different.
This wasn't meant to kill.
It was meant to break.
Shame cut deeper than cold. Deeper than pain. The kind of shame that carved itself in your spine and stayed there. Being handled like an object. Like I didn't even exist.
The old me – the real me – would have never let this happen.
But that body was gone.
This was all I had now.
And I would not let it be defiled.
The door opened.
He entered.
The noble was draped in ceremonial robes, silver thread glinting faintly under the chamber light. He moved slowly, reverently. Like he was entering the holy place.
This wasn't punishment for him.
It was worship.
His eyes passed over me. Not leering. Just… cold. Detached.
"Begin the ritual," he said.
The servants moved quickly, practiced. They led me to the center of the chamber, where the wide circle was etched into the floor – runed with symbols I didn't recognize.
An iron basin waited in the center. Filled with ice.
My breath caught at the sight of it.
Two of them grabbed my arms and guided me in. The metal froze against my skin. Ice bit into my legs, my back, my spine. My breath hitched.
I sat without a word.
The noble opened a thick, leather-bound book and began to chant.
Then came the water.
Buckets. Poured slow, deliberate. Ice-cold. Each wave struck like a slap. Down my head. Across my shoulder. Soaking everything.
I gasped – but bit it back.
I wanted to scream.
But screaming was for people who believed someone might come.
I stayed silent.
Instead, I remembered the midwinter training beneath the falls. My guild leader forced me to stand under a frozen cascade until my pnevma stopped thrashing like wildfire and started to burn steadily. I was B-class then – raw, overwhelming, but unstable. He said if I wanted to reach A-class, I had to learn to control something that could already kill.
I hated him for it.
Now, I was grateful.
I inhaled. Slow. Controlled.
I drew pnevma inward. Weak as it was, I anchored it deep. Heat bloomed at my center – not enough to warm, but enough to endure. The cold gnawed at my skin, but it never reached my mind.
I visualized the flow.
Let it cycle.
Let it settle.
Let it keep me alive.
The noble's voice rose behind me.
"By the light above, by the sacred sky before it bled red – burn the impurity from this vessel."
More water.
More chanting.
I didn't flinch.
Let them believe it was working. Let them believe I was breaking.
Because this wasn't a cleansing.
This was the last ritual they'd ever perform.