The stone beneath Lif's body was damp. Cold. Silent. His breath was faint, barely rising above the stillness of the dungeon. The wound in his shoulder hadn't closed—it was too deep, too vicious, too angry to seal itself naturally. Blood had stopped pouring, but the damage lingered: raw and exposed. His legs still refused to move. The muscles were there—the strength, somewhere—but the pain had chained him tighter than the cuffs around his wrists.
He lay motionless, arms slack at his sides, skin pale and trembling.
The iron door screeched open.
Footsteps. Heavy. Two pairs.
The same guards.
The same laughter.
"Morning, sunshine," one of them snorted as they stepped inside. "Missed your buddies?"
Lif didn't respond. Didn't even glance their way. His eyes stared at the cracked ceiling, the torchlight flickering against the damp stone. His body ached—not just from pain—but from anticipation.
He already knew.
"You deaf now?" The second guard grabbed a fistful of Lif's hair, yanking him up off the ground. Lif grunted but didn't scream. His feet dangled in the air, blood dripping from his fingertips. His body felt like a broken puppet, held together by sheer will.
"Let's get to it," the first guard said, approaching with something in his hands.
Rocks.
Lif blinked, confused for a second.
What?
The stones glowed faintly red, steam rising off them in the cold dungeon air.
His eyes widened.
"No..."
He twisted, trying to resist, but his body betrayed him—too weak, too shattered.
The guards slammed him to the ground.
"No, no—no—!"
One held him down while the other yanked up his tattered shirt, exposing his abdomen. The skin was already covered in bruises, old cuts, the slow dark rot of untreated wounds.
Then, the first stone was pressed to his stomach.
Lif screamed.
It wasn't a normal burn. It dug. Like the stone had teeth. The hiss of flesh meeting heat was immediate. The smell—burnt, wet meat—mixed with the dungeon's mold and iron stench.
Another stone. Then another.
They lined his abdomen with them like bricks forming a wall of fire.
Lif screamed until his throat dried, then coughed blood beside his cheek. His fists clenched but couldn't strike. His eyes rolled back, lips trembling, vision flashing between blurs and blackness.
"Stop—stop, please—please—" he sobbed.
"Oh, now you beg?" one of the guards chuckled. "Didn't have much to say when we stabbed you through the shoulder, huh?"
The other leaned down, frowning. "Uh… is it just me, or are they already… cold?"
"What?"
"Feel this one. It was glowing red. Now it's cold. Not even warm."
"…You sure they were in the forge long enough?"
"They cooked for three hours."
"Maybe it's just cold in here?"
They looked around. The dungeon was still and icy.
"Lucky brat," one of them spat.
They peeled the stones off, layers of scorched flesh sticking to the rock. Lif didn't scream anymore. He only whimpered—quiet and pained, like a dog hit too many times to bark.
They hoisted him back up and shackled him to the wall, letting his legs dangle. His body looked like a ruined painting—raw, bloody, burned, shredded.
One of the guards stepped back and got into a boxing stance.
"What are you doing?" the second asked.
The first grinned. "Kid looks like a bag. Might as well use him like one."
He threw the first punch—straight into Lif's ribs.
Lif wheezed, blood sputtering from his lips.
Another punch to the gut. Right where the burns were.
Then a hook to the side of the jaw. Lif's head snapped back, striking the wall behind him.
His eyes barely stayed open.
The guard kept going. One-two. Then another. Rib, gut, face. Over and over.
"I don't know what kind of freak you are," he growled between punches, "but I don't like freaks."
The second leaned against the wall, watching. Smiling.
Lif gasped through the pain. "…You… talk too much…"
The first guard paused.
"What?"
Lif's face was bruised, bleeding, but he grinned faintly. "Got a lot to say… for a guy who punches like a wet fish…"
The guard's expression twisted.
"You little—!"
He slammed his fist into Lif's stomach. Lif vomited blood onto the stone floor. Then the second guard approached from behind, drawing a dagger and slowly dragging it across Lif's back—not deep, but enough to ignite every nerve.
"Don't die yet," the second guard said. "You're still useful. Someone wants you alive."
They both laughed.
They left him hanging—bruised, shredded, leaking blood down the wall.
Lif didn't cry anymore. His body had nothing left.
But inside?
Something pulsed.
He closed his eyes.
She was there again.
No sound. No words. Just her… and the small warm light in the darkest part of his mind.
He breathed, shallowly.
"…Why do you keep… showing up…?"
She knelt beside him, silver hair floating gently. Her hand touched his face.
Warmth.
Not heat.
Warmth.
"Who… are you?" Lif whispered, barely audible.
She only smiled. Winked.
And vanished.
He was alone again.
But this time, he felt the fire… inside.
He looked at the shackles, panting—not from weakness. But from rising resolve.
"…Soon…" he whispered.
"…I'll make you both beg."