The coffee had almost gone cold.
Damien hadn't touched it. It sat in front of him on the polished surface of the desk. A faint ripple still dancing along its surface from the tremble of his fingers a few minutes ago.
He sat motionless in his study, gaze fixed on a spot on the wall as if something invisible lingered there. Ava hadn't come out of her room since the episode. He'd heard her door open once, maybe twice, then silence. He didn't push, not yet. In as much as she wanted to probe, he didn't want to be a bother. Ava was unraveling.
As he raised the cup to his lips, a sharp knock broke the silence. The door creaked open, and the butler stepped inside.
"Has it been prepared?" Damien asked. His voice was calm, almost gentle in a way that was unsettling. His eyes remained on the wall.
"Yes, sire."
He set the cup down with deliberate care. "Very well," he murmured as he stood up. A slow smile crawled across his face. It was slight, cold and almost imperceptibly cruel.
He left the study without another word, his long strides carrying him through the high-ceilinged corridors of the estate. The butler followed behind him, struggling to keep up as Damien's pace quickened once they passed through the grand doors and onto the estate grounds.
He walked down the estate grounds past the maze and down the rolling hills to the forest behind the estate.
Beyond the marble fountains and sculpted hedges, past the maze woven with roses and brambles, there was a path few knew existed. Right behind the hills was the forest, the one no servant dared enter alone, even in daylight.
Damien walked into the forest like he belonged here. Even in the sunlight, it was damp, dark and oddly quiet.
The trees loomed tall and ancient, their branches knotted like grasping hands. Light barely pierced the canopy making whatever laid beneath them die. The forest felt different, like it was alive with secrets. Every step seemed to awaken something buried beneath the roots. Trees arched like skeletal fingers overhead, clawing at the light, letting only slivers through. The forest swallowed sounds. There were no birds and no wind either, just the crunch of boots on wet leaves.
As they walked further, eventually, they reached an old, ancient gate.
It stood crooked and rusted, swallowed by vines and the bite of time. Moss coated the iron and thick ivy wound through the bars like veins. Damien pushed it open with a screech of metal, the forest falling deathly quiet as if holding its breath.
They walked into the passway that led deep underground. It was cold, dark and quiet.
Stone walls closed in on them as the stone path beneath their feet grew slick with moisture. The deeper they went, the colder and darker it became. Torches lined the walls. They burned low, dim and flickering, casting more shadow than light. The air thickened with every step, the silence broken only by the distant drip of water and the occasional metallic creak of chains in the dark.
As they walked deeper, the smell of damp earth hit them then the smell of rot, rusted metal, bodies, blood, sweat and desperation. Cold crept along their skin. The deeper they went, the darker it became.
They had arrived.
The corridor widened into a large underground chamber. It was a dungeon carved into the very bones of the land. Cells lined both walls, some empty cobwebs and dust having them as their habitat, others transformed into grotesque displays of time with skeletons slumped in corners, ribs cracked and skulls grinning through webs and filth. In two of the cells, low groans came like they were stubbornly hanging on to life.
Barely.
The first man groaned low, he slumped against the bars. His clothes were soaking wet and his face unrecognizable beneath the bruises and blood. He flinched at the sound of footsteps and pressed himself further into the shadows.
Damien ignored him and he moved to the next cell.
"Open it," he ordered.
The butler obeyed wordlessly. The rusted lock groaned in protest and the door creaked open with a shriek that echoed off the stone walls.
Damien stepped inside.
At first glance, it was obvious that he had been tortured endlessly. The man had his hands chained to each far end of the cell. He could barely move. His knees dug into the dirt, body limp, barely breathing. His hands were bound and stretched and his arms trembling from exhaustion. The stench of blood and infection clung to his skin. His head hung low, blood matting his hair to his face as low sounds escaped his lips. He was bleeding all over and his clothes were tattered.
Then Damien's steps drew closer, and the prisoner immediately hearing the footsteps struggled as he raised his head to look up.
His face was a ruin of bone and flesh. One eye swollen shut, the other bloodshot and pleading. His lips trembled, caked with dried blood. He tried to speak but it came out in a wheeze.
"Help… me…" he choked. "Please… I'm sorry… I'm sorry… Let me go…" He lowered his head till it almost touched the ground.
The chains rattled as his shoulders sagged.
Damien tilted his head, watching him. His hands remained in his pockets, his posture casual. He looked almost amused. That smile returned on his lips. It was slow and curling, like something darker than anger and colder than hate.