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Caleb

The rhythmic scrape of iron against stone echoed through the damp chamber, a sound etched into my consciousness. It was the herald of another day, another interrogation, another agonizing test of my will. It started with the heavy tread of the guards, three of them, their faces hidden behind steel helms. They yanked me to my feet, my muscles screaming in protest from hours spent slumped on the cold stone floor.

The interrogation room was a stark contrast to my cell. Torchlight flickered on polished stone walls, casting long, grotesque shadows. A single, hard chair stood in the center, facing a raised platform where the king's inquisitor, a gaunt man with eyes like chips of ice, sat perched behind a massive oak desk.

The questions were always the same: who are the members of the rebellion? Where is their base? What do they plan to do? Silence was my only weapon, a defiance that seemed to infuriate them more than any answer.

They were patient, at first. Promises of leniency, of freedom, even. Lies that dripped like honey from their lips. But my silence remained unbroken. Then came the beatings. Fists rained down upon me, blows that bruised and bloodied but never broke my spirit.

When the beatings failed, they resorted to fire. A red-hot brand, the symbol of the king's cruelty, was pressed against my flesh. The stench of burning hair and seared skin filled the air, a sickening counterpart to the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I screamed, a primal howl of agony, but through the haze of pain, I clung to the memory of Kira's hand in mine, a symbol of hope in this living nightmare.

They returned me to my cell, a broken, bleeding mess.

Through the damp walls, muffled voices reached me from the other cells. Desperate whispers, pleas for gods that never seemed to answer. Every day, I strained to hear anything – a plan, a whisper of rebellion, anything. But most days, the only sounds were the sobs of broken men, waiting for their inevitable demise.

Desperate, I tried to glean information from the guards. Every interaction was an opportunity, a carefully crafted question slipped into a conversation about their wives back home, their dreams of buying a house with their hard-earned coin. They were oblivious, boasting of their families, their loyalty to the king unwavering. Their conversations offered no intel, only a glimpse into the lives of ordinary men caught on the wrong side of history.

The prisoners were another story. Broken shells of men, their eyes vacant with despair. When I dared to speak to them, they looked at me with a mixture of fear and envy. I was new, my fire still burning faintly. But they had been here for months, years, their defiance worn down to a nub. They offered no secrets, just the chilling certainty of my own inevitable fate.

Each scrape of the dungeon door was a tick of the clock, another agonizing tick towards… what? Time had become a formless entity in this dungeon, measured only by the slop they called food and the sting of the whip. Weeks? Months? I’d stopped counting after the fifth lashing, the world dissolving into a tapestry of pain woven with the musty stench of my cell.

But today, the rhythm changed. A single, hesitant scrape, followed by lighter boots. Not the guards, that much I knew. They moved with a practiced brutality, their steps loud and heavy. This intruder walked with caution, a predator approaching its prey.

A flicker of curiosity, a spark long buried beneath the weight of despair, ignited within me. I lifted my head, my vision blurry from the perpetual darkness. The cell door creaked open, casting a sliver of light across the filthy floor. A silhouette filled the doorway, tall and imposing.

The king.

My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the hollowness within me. I knew exactly what was coming. It was a ritual as predictable as the rising sun in a world I no longer saw. The king would savor his entrance, the sound of his boots a prelude to the violation to follow. He'd linger, eyes gleaming with a perverse pleasure at the sight of me, broken and defeated, chained like a beast on the verge of madness. Each visit was the same, an agonizing dance of power and humiliation.

The king stepped into the cell, the single torch flickering on his face. A cruel smile stretched across his lips, revealing a glint of gold amongst the grey. The air grew thick with a sickeningly sweet perfume, the king's signature stench.

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"Caleb," the king purred, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Still defying your king? How admirable. Such… resilience."

I remained silent, my body a rigid wall against the oncoming storm. I knew the script, the cruel words leading to the inevitable touch, the exploration of my broken form. I wouldn't give the king the satisfaction of a reaction. I wouldn't give him anything.

The king's boots crunched on the filthy straw as he stalked closer, the stench of perfume intensifying with each step. His gloved hand reached out, hovering over my shoulder for a moment before landing with a heavy thud on my bare back. The touch was electric, a jolt that ran through me despite the numbness that had settled into my limbs.

He trailed his hand down my spine, his fingers lingering on the protruding vertebrae, a cruel caress. A guttural purr rumbled in his chest. "So strong," he murmured, his voice laced with a perverse admiration. "Even after all this… you haven't lost everything."

Another hand, this one bare and slick, snaked across my chest, sending a fresh wave of nausea churning in my stomach. I gritted my teeth, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself to disappear, to become one with the cold stone floor.

"But you will break, Caleb," the king hissed, his voice close to my ear, hot and fetid. "You will tell me everything I want to know. About the rebellion, about your friends… everything."

Then, abruptly, he leaned in close, his fetid breath washing over me. His tongue darted out, a pink serpent tasting the exposed skin of my neck. A guttural growl rose in my throat. This, this I wouldn't tolerate.

With a surge of adrenaline fueled by disgust, I twisted towards him, spitting a glob of saliva full in his face. The king recoiled, a snarl twisting his features. A bony hand connected with my jaw, the world exploding in a flash of white-hot pain. A metallic tang filled my mouth, the taste of blood mingling with the coppery aftertaste of betrayal.

He struck me again, harder this time, for good measure. "You insolent cur," he spat, his voice laced with fury. "You'll regret that when I have you whipped until morning!"

He moved behind me, his weight pressing against my back. I heard the unmistakable sound of fumbling fabric, the metallic clink of a button being undone. A wave of dread washed over me, thick and suffocating.

This was it. The moment I dreaded most.

I closed my eyes even tighter, burying myself in the darkness of my mind. I focused on the rhythmic scrape of the rats gnawing at the corner of my cell, on the distant drip of water somewhere in the dungeon, on anything but the feel of his hand on my shoulder, the press of his body against mine.

He liked it this way, the king. To see me broken, to violate me not just physically, but with his dominance, his power. He wanted to leave his mark, not just a bruise or a sting, but a seed of humiliation that would fester within me, a constant reminder of my weakness.

But I wouldn't give him that satisfaction. I wouldn't let him see the fear in my eyes, the flicker of despair. I would become a stone wall, an unyielding fortress against his pathetic attempts to break me.

The sounds continued – his ragged breathing, the rustle of fabric – a symphony of self-gratification fueled by my misery. I fought the urge to gag, to scream, to lash out. It would be a victory for him, a confirmation of his power.

The king let out a low moan, the sound punctuated by the rustle of fabric. I knew what was coming, the sickening wetness, the degradation that marked the end of this grotesque ritual.

The sounds finally ceased, replaced by a heavy silence. The king remained behind me for a moment, his body a dead weight against mine. Then, with a final, almost regretful sigh, he pulled away.

"We'll have this little chat again soon, Caleb," he said, his voice cold and detached. "And next time, perhaps you'll be more… forthcoming."

The cell door creaked shut, plunging me back into darkness. I slumped against the wall, the weight of his touch lingering on my skin, a physical manifestation of my humiliation.

I scrambled for the dirty straw that littered the floor, my hands shaking as I grabbed a handful. It was coarse and grimy, but it was all I had to wipe away the sticky remnants.

It was clear this was the king’s vile revenge for what he perceived as his loss. For it was me who had freed Elyse, his most prized possession and personal slave. An eye for an eye.

The putrid taste of the king's perfume clung to my mouth, a physical manifestation of the violation. My world shrunk to the space between my legs, raw and throbbing. A primal wave of nausea rose within me, unstoppable and violent. My stomach convulsed, spewing out the watery remnants of my meager rations onto the filth-strewn floor. I coughed and gagged, tears finally spilling down my cheeks, a mixture of bile and despair.

Silence returned, thick and suffocating. The stench of my own vomit mingled with the king's cloying perfume, a grotesque reminder of what had just transpired. But amidst the despair, a flicker of defiance, a tiny ember ignited by the name I had dared to speak.

Kira.

Her image, strong and defiant, swam before my tear-blurred vision. The memory of her hand outstretched, a promise of a future we had dared to dream of, fueled a silent rage within me. They might have captured my body, broken it, but my spirit? That was not theirs to claim.

My body ached, every muscle screaming in protest. But with each ragged breath, the ember within me grew, a spark of hope in the endless darkness.