The room reeked of sweat, blood, and something far fouler—an unholy mix of conquest and cruelty that clung to the stone walls like mold. The door had been locked again, leaving only a flickering candle in the far corner, casting long shadows over the mess left behind.

Zephyrion lay on the cold floor, curled slightly on his side, his breathing shallow.

His thighs were sticky with a mix of blood and seed, his back marred with fresh lash marks that had barely stopped bleeding. The once-white sheet beneath him was soaked and ruined, sticking to his skin in patches. A metallic scent hung in the air—copper and pain.

He didn’t cry. Not anymore.

His emerald eyes stared blankly ahead, wide open but glassy, like the soul inside him had already retreated elsewhere. Somewhere safer. Somewhere far from this place.

His lips were parted slightly, the corner of his mouth split, dried blood trailing from it. Finger-shaped bruises bloomed along his hips and throat. Every breath he took made his ribs ache, but he didn’t move. Movement meant attention. Attention meant more.

He had learned that lesson well.

Somewhere beyond the door, laughter echoed—guards, probably. Or buyers. Or worse.

Zephyrion's fingers twitched slightly, not from strength, but from the faint memory of what it felt like to fight back. But that urge had long since been beaten out of him. Now, all he could do was wait. For sleep. For morning. For whoever would come in next.

His only hope was that maybe—just maybe—they wouldn’t touch him this time.