Maria.

I was drowning, sinking deeper into the thick, suffocating layers of my own subconsciousness. It felt endless, like being trapped beneath dark waters with no surface in sight. That strange gift, no, that cursed power of mine, had dragged me here again, locking me away at the very moment I needed my body the most.

I hated this place.

I could hear everything.

That was the cruelty of it.

Davian’s voice cut through the darkness with terrifying clarity, each word reaching me as though my ears were wide open instead of my body lying broken and unresponsive on the floor. I heard his commands, sharp and cold, heard the authority in his tone as he instructed the guards. Every sentence tightened around my heart like a noose, squeezing the air from my lungs.

Fear surged violently inside me.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to move. I wanted to open my eyes and run, or at least beg, but I couldn’t. My body felt distant, foreign, like it no longer belonged to me. I tried to command my fingers to twitch, my legs to jerk, my eyelids to lift even a fraction, but nothing responded.

I was trapped.

Completely numb.

Even worse... I couldn’t feel my wolf.

The realization struck me with silent horror. No warmth. No presence. No familiar strength curling protectively inside my chest. It was as though she had vanished entirely, leaving me hollow and defenseless.

Would she be able to heal me?

The question echoed faintly in my mind, fragile and desperate. She had always come through for me before, even when my body had been pushed beyond its limits. But this time felt different. This time felt darker. Heavier.

What if she couldn’t reach me?

Panic clawed at my thoughts as I listened to Davian speak, each word sealing my terror further. I knew what he was capable of. I knew his cruelty wore the mask of discipline. I knew mercy was never something he gave freely.

I needed to wake up.

Now.

I begged myself to rise, to force my eyes open, to pull myself back into my body before it was too late. I imagined my lungs filling with air, imagined the ache of pain returning, anything was better than this helplessness.

Because I knew what was coming.

Water.

The thought alone made my spirit tremble.

If the so-called warm water touched my skin, I knew it would not be warm at all. It would be scalding. Burning. Hot enough to blister flesh and leave scars that would never fade. I would be nothing more than a roasted wolf, broken and helpless, served up for his rage.

And if the cold water came first... or the iced water...

The fear deepened into something primal.

I would freeze.

Not just my body, but my soul.

I would be locked here forever, trapped in this endless darkness, conscious but unable to move, unable to scream, unable to live or die properly. A prisoner inside my own mind.

The terror of that fate crushed down on me, heavier than any blow he had ever delivered.

"Moon Goddess," I whispered silently, my plea trembling within the depths of my subconscious. "Please... help me."

I clung to the prayer like a lifeline, wrapping it tightly around my breaking spirit.

"Please," I begged again, the word tearing itself from me, raw and stripped of pride. My voice sounded small in the vast darkness, fragile in a way that made my chest ache. "Make Davian have mercy on me. Just this once." I swallowed hard, forcing the rest out as my resolve crumbled piece by piece. "I don’t ask for freedom... I don’t ask for justice... just mercy."

The plea lingered after my voice fell silent, hanging in the air like a final breath.

I waited.

I listened.

Every sense strained toward the darkness around me, desperate for something, anything. A shift in the air. A change in temperature. A whisper of warmth brushing against my skin. I searched for her presence the way a drowning soul searches for light above water, convinced that if I focused hard enough, if I believed deeply enough, she would answer.

My heart pounded wildly, frantic and relentless, though I couldn’t feel it physically. It was as if the fear lived somewhere deeper than flesh, echoing through me in heavy, invisible waves. Each second stretched unbearably long, time losing all meaning as dread coiled tighter with every breath I took. I braced myself, caught between fragile hope and inevitable despair, waiting for judgment, or salvation.

But nothing came.

No miracle unfolded in the darkness.

No unseen force intervened on my behalf.

No voice spoke my name.

The silence was absolute. Final.

Then it happened.

Without warning, a violent shock tore through me as icy water was poured over my body.

The sensation was brutal, like being plunged into a frozen river without warning. It slammed into me all at once, stealing whatever fragile sense of warmth I still clung to. I instantly began to shiver, violently, uncontrollably, though I couldn’t even tell if my physical body was truly reacting or if it was only my consciousness convulsing in panic.

The cold sank deep.

Too deep.

It wasn’t just on my skin, it felt like it seeped into my bones, into my blood, into places pain had no right to reach. My teeth should have been chattering, my muscles should have been jerking, but I was still trapped, still helpless, still unable to move.

"Help!" I screamed.

The sound tore from me in my mind, raw and desperate, echoing endlessly in the darkness. I screamed again, and again, but it was useless. No one could hear me in this state. My voice was locked inside me, swallowed by the void that held my body hostage.

I was alone.

Completely alone.

Before I could gather myself, before I could even brace for what was coming next, something even colder struck me.

The iced water.

It crashed against me like stone, hard, merciless, unforgiving. It didn’t pour gently; it hit me in sharp bursts, slamming against my neck, my shoulders, my chest, my legs. Wherever it landed, the pain followed instantly, sharp and piercing, as though shards of ice were being driven straight into my flesh.

I felt it on my legs.

On my arms.

On my bones.

It didn’t matter where it fell, it all hurt the same.

"Arrrrrrgh!" I screamed, the sound tearing through my consciousness in a broken, frantic cry. The pain was unbearable now, layered on top of fear, suffocation, and helplessness.

"Wake up, Maria," I begged myself desperately. "Wake up... you are going to die."

The words repeated in my mind like a chant, like a plea I hoped would somehow drag me back. I tried to claw my way out of the darkness, tried to force my eyes open, tried to remember how it felt to exist inside my body.

But nothing worked.

The cold kept coming.

Each second stretched longer than the last, and I could feel myself slipping, sliding further away, losing whatever fragile grip I had left on consciousness. My thoughts became scattered, disjointed, tangled in pain and fear.

Then it happened.

The warmth came—but not the kind I had prayed for.

The moment the so-called warm water touched my skin, I knew instantly I had been right.

It wasn’t warm.

It was hot.

Scalding.

The heat burned on contact, a sharp, searing pain exploding across my skin like fire. It felt as though my flesh was being punished from the inside out, nerves screaming all at once as the sudden contrast from freezing cold to blistering heat overwhelmed my system.

That was when my eyes fluttered open.

The world rushed back in fragments, light, sound, pain crashing together all at once. I gasped sharply, my chest heaving as air finally filled my lungs again, but the relief was short-lived.

He didn’t stop.

The water kept coming.

He kept pouring it over me relentlessly, the heat licking my skin, the pain growing worse with every second. My body reacted instinctively now, twisting weakly, trying to escape, but I was far too weak.

A scream tore out of my throat, raw and uncontrolled.

"Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!"

It echoed through the room, filled with agony and desperation, ripping straight from my chest. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, hoarse, broken, terrified.

I turned my head slightly, my vision blurred and swimming, tears streaking down my face as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

And then I saw him.

Davian.

He stood there, looming over me, his expression hard and unreadable, his grip firm around the container in his hands. He was the one pouring the water.

Not the guards.

Not anyone else.

It was him.

The realization struck me harder than the pain itself. I had thought—hoped—that he wouldn’t dirty his own hands with this. That he would simply watch from a distance and let others carry out his cruelty.

But I was wrong.

He was right there.

Doing it himself.

And in that moment, as pain coursed through my body and my scream faded into weak gasps, I understood something with terrifying clarity...This wasn’t just punishment.

This was personal, especially for him.