＃𝙑𝙄 ︱ 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍

1,855 days.

1,855 days of torment, agony, and isolation.

Each morning began with searing pain, and every night ended with silence that screamed louder than any words.

The guards came with their batons, their fists, and their hatred, raining blows on her as if she were less than human. They laughed as they struck, their cruelty matched only by the cold indifference of Swain and Khanzar, who stood nearby, watching it all unfold.

"This is for your own good," Khanzar sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "We're making you stronger. We're making you worthy again."

1,855 days of bloodied fingernails ripped from their beds, of wounds reopened before they could heal.

"There is no discharge in the war," Swain had said, his tone unyielding, his gaze piercing through her like a dagger.

1,855 days of erasing her humanity, bit by bit. The torture wasn't just to punish her—it was designed to make her forget. Forget her pain, forget her loss, forget herself. To make her nothing more than a vessel, hollow and obedient, ready to be filled with the darkness they deemed fit.

But the most insidious part wasn't the physical torment. It was the slow, creeping loss of her memories. Her son's laughter began to fade, his face becoming a shadow in her mind. The sound of his voice grew distant, like a melody she could no longer hum.

And LeBlanc watched from the shadows, her crimson lips curling into a satisfied smile.

"She's breaking," LeBlanc whispered to herself, her voice like silk laced with venom. "The girl will soon be mine."

Every day Victoria's grip on who she once was slipped further away. The bright, ambitious girl who dreamed of liberation, who played the harp with delicate fingers and spoke of peace with unwavering conviction, was now a ghost within herself.

Her grief had turned to ashes. Her rage had been stolen.

And for 1,855 days, the only thing she felt was emptiness.

Victoria wasn't herself anymore.

The girl who once stood defiant, who dreamed of justice and carried the weight of her lineage with pride, was gone. What remained was a hollow shell, shattered and lifeless.

Her vision blurred as she sat in the darkness of her cell, staring at nothing. Shadows danced along the damp walls, and within them, she saw her mother. A fragile, fleeting image, barely clinging to the edges of her broken mind.

"Why did you leave me?" she whispered, her voice hoarse and trembling, barely audible over the echoing silence. "Why did you abandon me... to this?"

The specter didn't answer. It never did. It was only a cruel trick of her shattered mind—a memory twisted by torment.

Victoria couldn't feel anymore. Not sorrow. Not rage. Not even the lingering warmth of the magic that once coursed through her veins. There was nothing left. No hope. No identity. No soul.

She was dead.

Her body remained, bruised and battered, but Victoria Khalaseth was gone, reduced to a whisper in the wind—a girl who once was.

Her head hung low, greasy strands of her once-shining hair falling like a curtain over her face. She didn't resist when the guards came again. Their rough hands seized her arms, dragging her limp form across the cold stone floor. Her legs scraped against the ground, leaving faint trails of blood from fresh wounds, but she didn't flinch. She didn't cry. She didn't fight.