Chapter 2: World of pain
It was as if the universe itself had grabbed him by the spine and shoved him into a body that didn't belong to him. Fire surged through his veins, acid gnawed at his nerves, and his chest convulsed under an unseen weight. But the worst of it—the most unbearable—was the spiritual pain. It was like his soul was being dragged across broken glass, reshaped, remolded to fit a vessel that resisted his presence.
He opened his mouth to scream but only a ragged gasp came out. His lungs burned.
He felt agony—raw, indescribable agony.
It was a double-edged pain, not content to torture his soul alone. His flesh ached as though he had been dragged across molten stone, every joint dislocated and reset without care. But deeper than the torn muscles, deeper than the bruised bones, there was a burning ache in his soul—a corrosive pain like acid gnawing at something essential inside him. The body rejected him. The soul resisted staying.
His breath came in shallow rasps. The stench of rot, iron, and mildew assaulted him. He lay on a slab of stone slick with cold moisture. The dungeon around him was dimly lit by green rune-lanterns embedded into the cracked stone walls. They pulsed softly, suppressing all ambient Aether, blanketing the chamber in a lifeless stillness. There were no windows—only iron-barred doors and rusting chains bolted into the walls.
He tried to sit up. Lightning lanced down his spine.
His scream never came. Only a hoarse cough, and a mouthful of blood.
It was then, through the haze of pain, he heard it—a gasp, sharp and feminine. He looked up just in time to see a maid drop her basket of linen. She was young, maybe sixteen, dressed in plain gray servant's garb, her purple hair braided tight behind her. Her eyes locked onto his glowing green ones, and whatever blood remained in her face drained in an instant.
"He's awake—" she whispered, horrified.