shadows kiss

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*Zalria's Torment*

In the quiet darkness of her cell, Zalria's eyelids fluttered as a gentle smile curved her lips. In her dream, the sun shone warmly, casting golden light over a small, cozy cottage nestled by a serene lake. She sat on a soft blanket, cradling a baby girl in her arms. The child's laughter was pure and bright, echoing in the open air. Lyrien, standing beside them, looked at her with endless love, his eyes shining with pride and tenderness. The warmth of his hand resting on her shoulder filled her with a happiness she had longed for, a life finally free from shadows and war.

She laughed softly in the dream, the baby's tiny fingers grasping hers. The air was filled with peace, the troubles of the world far away. Her heart swelled with hope and an overwhelming love, a fragile moment she wished could last forever. For a brief time, she forgot her captivity, the pain, and the darkness that awaited her beyond the dream.

But suddenly, the warm light flickered and faded. The laughter was swallowed by a cold silence. The dream shattered like fragile glass, and Zalria's eyes snapped open to the harsh, cruel reality of her prison. The stone walls around her were damp and cold, their chill seeping into her bones. A deep, hollow ache settled in her chest.

Before she could steady herself, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. A shadowy figure—a Fallen—loomed over her, eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction. Without a word, cold iron chains clamped tightly around her wrists and ankles, biting into her skin. The sound of the metal links clinking echoed in the small cell like a death knell.

Zalria struggled, but the chains held firm. She sank to the ground, her breath ragged but defiant. She had always faced darkness with fire in her heart, but now the fire flickered dangerously low.

Days passed in a haze of torment. No food, no water—only the slow, steady drain of her magic at the hands of the Fallen. They came each day, cold and merciless, drawing her powers out drop by drop like a leech sucking blood. Each time, her strength waned, and her skin grew paler, more translucent, veins darkening like cracked porcelain beneath her fragile flesh.

Yet, even as her body weakened, Zalria fought to keep her spirit alive. She wrapped herself in the memories of that dream—the laughter, the love, the hope—clinging to them like a lifeline. Her lips would sometimes curve into a faint, weary smile, masking the storm of fear and despair raging inside.

In the quiet moments, when the torture paused and the world seemed still, she whispered to herself, "They will not break me. Lyrien will come. I will hold my daughter again."

But fear gnawed at her, sharp and persistent. She dared not let it show, for that would be to give the Fallen victory. Her heart beat heavy with the knowledge that with every stolen drop of magic, her chance of escape, of reunion, grew thinner.

Her eyes—once bright and fierce—now reflected the cold stone around her, but behind them, a burning resolve remained. She would survive. For her daughter, for Lyrien, for the hope that flickered even in the deepest shadow.

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Zalria lay slumped against the cold stone wall, her breath shallow and uneven. The dim light barely touched her pale face, but her eyes burned fiercely in the darkness. A sudden shuffle echoed behind her, and a Fallen appeared—his twisted form looming, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

"You're fading fast, princess," he sneered, the chains clinking as he stepped closer. "What use is a Witch Queen's heir when she's nothing but a weak, starving shadow?"

Zalria's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Weak? You mistake hunger for weakness. I am the blood of the Witch Queen, heir to a legacy you could never dream to grasp."

The Fallen chuckled darkly. "Legacy? Your beauty and power are gone. Look at you—pale, shackled, drained. Your magic is a flicker at best."

She lifted her chained hands defiantly, the faintest glow shimmering beneath her fingertips. "A flicker? Fool, it is an inferno waiting to be unleashed. I possess power you could only pray to see, and my beauty… is a weapon far deadlier than any sword you carry. You dare mock the rightful heir?"

He snarled, slamming a fist against the wall, the reverberation shaking the chamber. "You'll die here. Forgotten. Alone. The world will move on without the Witch Queen's bloodline."

Zalria's laugh was low, dangerous. "I am no fool to think my fate lies in this dungeon. If I break free—and I will—you and your entire House of the Fallen will burn. Every last one of you. This place will be reduced to ash beneath my wrath."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, but every word was a promise etched in fire. "Remember my words… I am the storm coming for you all."

The Fallen took a hesitant step back, fear flickering behind his cold eyes. But before he could retreat, the heavy doors slammed open with a deafening crash, and a shadow darker than night stepped into the chamber.

The air shifted—something far worse than chains or hunger awaited Zalria now.

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