In the underground court of Targoviste, Sypha washes your back, the feeling is unfamiliar, yet soothing — your own mother never washed your back with such care and tenderness.

“Don’t be afraid to let me know if I hurt you, alright?” Her voice is sweet, a mere caress to your ears which echoes in the hollow bathroom. Despite the occasional wince caused by the brush of soap against the open wounds on your skin, her touch as she washes it away quickly remedied the pain.