The dungeon air was thick with the scent of rusted chains, of damp stone and dried suffering.
Iyana stood, cloaked in calm fury, her violet eyes gleaming like sharpened amethysts under the wavering torchlight. There was no trace of pity in her expression—only a detached, haunting kind of poise that made the air feel colder than it was.
Sienna sat shackled in a steel chair, chains groaning with every tremble of her limbs. Her face, once so smug in courtly halls and whispered schemes, was now twisted in sheer dread. The sight stirred something quiet and visceral in Iyana—satisfaction not born of vengeance, but of long-awaited justice.
"Please," Sienna rasped, voice cracking like old porcelain. "Don't kill me."
But mercy was not on offer.
