Thorne's POV The door screeched open like a dying beast, and I was shoved inside the cell like a sack of rot.My feet skidded across the blood-slick ground and I glided, losing balance. My back hit the cold stone with a sickening thud. Chains rattled behind me. Omaru's boot nudged my side as he stepped away, followed by Nikolai. Vanyel entered last – slow, sure, and gleaming with malice."Remember what I told you earlier, wretch," came his voice – oily, gloating.His footsteps were slow, deliberate. He walked past me like a ghost and made his way to the heavy oaken table that waited in the shadows.I watched him carefully. His silhouette, lit by flickering torchlight, moved with aristocratic arrogance. There, he began to unwrap a dark velvet cloth draped over the table with reverent care, as if revealing holy relics. But they were anything but holy. Beneath it lay an array of instruments – steel gleamed, some jagged, some curved, some stained a rust-brown that didn’t come from age.
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