The Dread of Damned

I woke feeling rejuvenated, a deep sense of peace and satisfaction washing over me. For the first time in what felt like ages, I had indulged every desire without restraint, and the catharsis was potent. As I glanced at the broken figure lying on the cold floor, my contentment deepened. Her body was battered, the deep gashes still oozing blood, a pool forming beneath her. Her once plump breasts now hung swollen, discolored, and heavy, weighed down by the earrings I had so thoughtfully adorned them with. Their peaks had turned a deep, purplish hue from the constant strain, the stretched skin looking almost as if it would split at any moment. The image was beautiful—a masterpiece of pain and control, sculpted by my own hand.

A knock interrupted my reverie.

"Who is it?" I asked, my voice steady, calm, now that my desires were sated.

"It's me," came the familiar voice of my mother.

"Come in," I allowed, still lounging on the bed, basking in the afterglow of my exertions. She entered, her eyes quickly scanning the room before settling on the bleeding, trembling figure on the floor. She paused, her expression unreadable as she took in the damage I had wrought.

"What is it?" I asked lazily, reclining back on the bed.

"It's time for the meeting. I'm here to escort you," she said, her voice steady, though I could see the fire in her eyes—whether it was approval or disdain, I couldn't yet tell.

"Elara refuses to attend as always," she continued, "but you should be there."

I blinked, slowly registering the time that had passed. I'd slept deeply and soundly, something I hadn't experienced in what felt like forever. Releasing my pent-up urges had done wonders for me.

"Alright," I said, stretching as I rose and walked toward the washroom. My mother followed closely behind, her steps sure and silent.

Once inside, I slipped into the bath as she ran water over my nearly fully matured body. My skin glistened under the dim lighting as she began to wash me, her hands methodical.

"Tell Rowena to take care of that thing," I instructed, gesturing vaguely toward the woman on the floor. "Make sure she's fed; I don't want her losing any of that precious fat. No clothes. No one else should see her—only Rowena."

"As you say," my mother replied, scrubbing my skin with a firm hand.

After a brief exchange, her fingers slipped between my legs, teasing me. It was a small indulgence, a fleeting pleasure, before I emerged from the washroom, feeling even more refreshed. I dressed in a white sherwani from my previous world, its intricate silver patterns weaving through the fabric like delicate webs. It stopped just above my knees, paired with light silver trousers, ending in pointed white shoes with matching silver designs. My hair was slicked back, accentuating the sharpness of my face, and my pale eyes with their silver irises stood out against my features, giving me an almost ethereal, otherworldly look.

My mother stood beside me, dressed in a form-fitting gown that accentuated her voluptuous figure. She looked graceful, poised.

"Let's go," I said, my voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. As we walked toward the door, I couldn't resist giving her a sharp pah across her behind, earning a quiet sigh in response.

Before we left, I crouched down beside the woman, still lying unconscious on the floor, and toyed with the earrings, giving them a hard tug. Even in her sleep, she groaned in pain. It pleased me.

We exited the room and made our way down the long, dimly lit hall. Guards in white armor flanked the massive double doors, bowing deeply before pushing them open for us. The room beyond was vast, dominated by a large silver table that stretched across the center, its surface etched with ancient patterns, as though it had witnessed centuries of deliberations. Chairs lined either side of it, already occupied by the elders of our house. There were fifty seats in total, but only forty-six were filled. At the head of the table were three larger, more intricately designed thrones, two of which stood empty. My father sat in the central throne, his massive figure barely contained by the chair's grand design.

On smaller tables scattered throughout the hall sat red, viscous liquid in glass jars, along with human food—perhaps for a break later.

"As my wife and son are here, we can finally begin," my father announced, his voice booming through the hall as he rose from his seat. I made my way to the throne on his left, while my mother took her place on his right.

"Gunnar Blackwood, Kai Rylan, and Finnian Llewellyn have yet to arrive, Your Highness," one of the men remarked, his voice laced with unease.

"Then they should have been on time," my father said sharply, his patience clearly thin. "We cannot wait for them forever."

As if on cue, the doors swung open once again, revealing three men entering the hall. The first was a burly man, though still dwarfed by my father's imposing presence. He was followed by a tall, brooding figure, and lastly, a delicate-looking man who seemed almost fragile in comparison.

"Forgive us, Your Highness. We had urgent matters to attend to," the first man said, bowing deeply.

"Sit down," my father snapped. "Let's begin."

As they took their seats, the tension in the room thickened.

"We are gathered here today to decide the fate of Vestian, who has betrayed us to the House of Noctarian by leaking crucial information and sheltering our enemies," my father began, his voice a low growl. "His actions have endangered the lives of the prince and princess, and thus, we must pass judgment."

The man beside my father recounted Vestian's crimes in detail, explaining how he had been discovered harboring traitors and leaking critical information to our enemies. There was a murmur of discontent around the table as the elders began to discuss among themselves.

"What should be done with him?" the man asked, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

"Those in favor of execution, raise your hands," he commanded. Almost every hand in the room shot into the air.

"He should be killed for his transgressions," a sharp voice echoed, and there was a general murmur of agreement.

"While his actions are unforgivable," another voice chimed in, "I believe we should consider his years of loyal service. Perhaps a life sentence would be a more fitting punishment."

I turned my eyes toward the man who spoke, my gaze a warning. How dare he defend a traitor.

"He nearly cost us the next heir of our house," someone snarled. "How can you still defend him?"

"He had no direct hand in the assassination attempt," the man replied, but his voice faltered under the weight of suspicion directed his way.

"You jest," someone hissed. "Or perhaps you are his accomplice."

The tension in the room rose, eyes narrowing at the man who dared speak in favor of leniency.

"Do not accuse without proof!" the man shot back, his voice tinged with fear. "I am merely suggesting that death would be too swift a punishment."

My mother, who had been silent until now, finally spoke.

"Perhaps you're right," she said, her voice deceptively soft. "A quick death would be merciful. He should suffer."

Her words hung in the air, chilling the room.

"I suggest we torture him for at least a year before granting him the release of death," she continued, her tone calm.

The man who had advocated for mercy opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it again under her sharp gaze. No one dared oppose her now.

"Now, let's discuss the method of his torture," the man said.

There was a flurry of conversation and votes cast, before they finally settled on a decision: torture by shining, a brutal and prolonged method. My thoughts flickered to the woman with the purple hair and eyes—the thought of her enduring such suffering brought a small, cruel smile to my lips.

"And now, we must discuss the fate of Vestian's family," the man continued, his voice growing solemn. "As declared by His Highness, the bloodline of traitors must be eradicated. They, too, will face execution."

At that moment, I sat up straighter in my chair, a dark thrill coursing through me. This was the moment. My turn

"They will be in my care. Their fate will be decided by me alone," I declared, my voice cutting through the murmurs in the room like a blade. All eyes turned toward me, surprise and curiosity flickering in their expressions.

"My Prince," the burly man who had entered late spoke up, his tone respectful but firm, "you may not be aware, but the families of traitors are executed alongside them. It has always been our way. His Majesty's declaration was simply a reminder of that fact. Their fate is already decided."

I remained silent for a moment, letting the weight of my next words sink in before I spoke.

"I have stayed silent while you all decided the fate of the man who nearly cost me and my sister our lives. I allowed it out of respect for tradition. But this," I said, my voice steady but carrying a cold authority, "this is different. The fate of this family will rest in my hands, and I will not have it any other way."

The room grew still. My words hung in the air, commanding not just attention but submission. The delicate man, who had entered alongside the others, finally broke the silence.

"What will you do with them, my prince?" he asked, his voice soft but curious.

I leaned back into the throne, eyes narrowing as I regarded him with cool indifference. "That is none of your concern. I have spoken. My decision is final."

There was a moment of uncertainty as the elders exchanged glances, perhaps waiting for someone to challenge me. But when they saw my father, sitting in his throne with a quiet, unreadable expression, and my mother, her head subtly nodding in approval, their resolve faltered.

The brooding man, his face shadowed and stern, finally rose from his seat. "Then their fate shall rest in your hands, Your Highness. They are as good as dead to us now." He bowed deeply, and as he did, a cruel smile crept across my face. The power that now rested in my hands was exhilarating.

"Good," my father said, his deep voice punctuating the moment. "We will now take a brief recess before continuing with further matters."

He rose from his throne, signaling the temporary halt to the proceedings. I stood as well, my movements slow and deliberate. I told him I would be leaving, that my part in the matter was done for now. He nodded in acknowledgment, a silent affirmation of my growing authority.

As I walked out of the chamber, the weight of the gazes that now populated the scattered table bore into my back—three pairs of eyes in particular, sharp and lingering. But I did not turn to meet them. Their judgment, their fear, meant nothing to me.

I had already won. At least for today.

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