The torture chamber sports the proudest collection of artifacts of war and desolation.
Weapons — not their material form, but their tainted energy forged by death and misery — hang along the wall. The souls of swords wielded by conquerors throughout the edges. Like the sabre of Genghis Khan, with a hilt wrapped in hate, and edge dripping with genocide.Read More »
A strong, sudden sting of stale and hot-humid air forces its way into his lungs. It’s bitter and sour, strong, and yet sweet. His eyelids pry open. One by one, like too-strong velcro, he feels eyelash after lash ripping away from one another. He suppresses the urge to inhale, buy up his throat scratches a cloud of dust and mould. Then, gagging and croaking, his is the first staggering gasp of the dead waking up.Read More »