“Silence, fool! You have stirred what ought never to have been disturbed." – A priest in dread

  I cloaked us both in darkness—a thick, intimate dome that swallowed sound and light, leaving only the two of us in a private abyss. The man forced guttural moans through his damaged throat; tears streamed down his cheeks, mixing with snot and saliva. He scrabbled backwards on elbows and heels, desperate to escape the shadow that had become his prison.

  I paid his panic no mind.

  With a subtle gesture, I cast an area healing spell, layering it across the dome’s interior. Every being within would regenerate constantly—flesh knitting, bones resetting, organs mending—ensuring no injury could prove fatal. No escape through death.

  Then I conjured a small orb of pale light above the cane’s vulture-skull handle, letting it float just high enough to illuminate his face without dispelling the gloom.

  Our eyes met. His tears redoubled; whimpers turned to choked pleas. I watched impassively as his shattered arms straightened, skin sealing over raw muscle, fingers flexing involuntarily as the healing took hold.

  When his limbs were whole again, he staggered upright—tripping once, twice—and then lunged for the dome’s edge. He collided with an invisible barrier; the darkness had acquired physical density at my whim. He pounded against it, screaming for help that would never reach him.

  Futile.

  He spun back toward me. I offered a cold, serene smile and began to walk forward—slow, deliberate steps, cane tapping rhythmically against the concrete.

  Whether driven by bravery or sheer terror, he charged. His fist swung wildly. I sidestepped with effortless grace and brought the cane’s handle upward in a sharp arc. A bone cracked; his wrist folded backwards with a wet snap. He screamed, collapsing in a heap. The cries escalated—raw, animalistic. A dark stain spread across his trousers as he urinated in fear.

  The wrist began to heal almost immediately. He rose again, legs trembling. I had no desire to trudge through filth.

  Darkness lashed out—two thick tendrils coiling around his shins. A swift twist; both legs were shattered below the knee. He dropped like a marionette with cut strings. The tendrils dragged him toward me across the soiled floor.

  He tried to speak—gibbering, pleading. I silenced him with a ribbon of shadow forced across his mouth, gagging him while forming a low, solid seat of darkness beneath me. I settled comfortably, crossing one leg over the other.

  “You see", I began, voice soft and measured, “my people have long held innocence in particular reverence. In a world so thoroughly corrupted, to defile the young, the na?ve, the ignorant… is an unforgivable transgression. What I am about to do to you—humans have a rather quaint phrase for it: ‘a tooth for a tooth.' "

  He thrashed, muffled protests vibrating against the gag.

  I conjured a slender tendril of darkness beside me. It hovered, almost gently, then caressed his cheek—tender, almost lovingly—before trailing downward.

  “You defiled others,” I continued calmly. “So, prepare to be defiled.”

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  The tendril moved lower, probing, then forced its way inside him with brutal suddenness. He arched, eyes bulging, a scream tearing free despite the gag – muffled but piercing. At the same moment I drove darkness down his throat—filling lungs, stomach, oesophagus—crushing, tearing, suffocating. The healing spell countered every rupture, forcing him to endure the cycle without end.

  Twenty seconds. No more.

  I withdrew both intrusions. He collapsed, coughing violently, retching bile and blood onto the floor. Chest heaving, he gasped for air.

  I allowed him a brief respite.

  One. Two. Three.

  Sufficient.

  Darkness coiled around his limbs once more, pinning him upright despite his weak struggles. He tried to form words but couldn't. I leant forward slightly.

  “I do not know the precise manner in which you defiled your victims,” I said conversationally. “Therefore, I shall defile every orifice you possess.”

  He whimpered. I ignored it.

  Tendrils invaded the nose, mouth, ears, nipples, genitalia, and anus, filling, stretching, and tearing. Simultaneously, I shattered his bones one by one: ribs, femurs, vertebrae, fingers. Each fracture healed instantly, only to be broken again. I granted him air in short, cruel bursts—enough to prevent death by asphyxiation, never enough for relief.

  When I judged that he had suffered adequately, I ceased the intrusions. Darkness lifted him upright like a puppet—limp, bleeding from every orifice, his body spasming in aftershocks. Since no natural holes remained unviolated, I created new ones—small, precise punctures—and resumed.

  I regarded him for several long seconds, head tilted.

  “Your leader", I promised quietly, “will face a fate far worse.”

  Weak, broken laughter bubbled from his ruined throat—delirious, jagged, and utterly mad. His eyes gleamed with fractured defiance even as blood trickled from the corners of his mouth.

  When his body had fully regenerated once more, I released the dome’s cloak.

  Light flooded back. The first thing I saw was the horrified faces of those gathered at the entrance: police officers, arcanists, and Bureau personnel. Several had gone pale; one retched into a corner. Another muttered loudly, voice cracking, "What the hell happened in there?”

  I offered them a pleasant, refreshed smile—as though I had merely stepped away for a brief respite. Their horror deepened.

  Still mildly perplexed by their reaction, I used a tendril of darkness to deposit the man—now little more than a quivering husk—before the nearest officer.

  “Excuse me,” I said politely to the man closest to me. “Might you direct me to Richard and the leader?”

  He swallowed hard, eyes flicking to the broken figure at his feet. “Richard’s… interrogating the leader. Threatening him with—well, a fate worse than death.” He gestured vaguely toward a stairwell. “Second floor",

  I nodded graciously. “My thanks.”

  He led me reluctantly up the stairs. The second floor was a gallery of carnage: blood-drawn symbols on every wall, bodies strewn haphazardly, severed heads dangling from the ceiling by wires like grotesque ornaments. Police photographers moved among the debris, flashes popping in the dim light.

  We entered a small side room. Richard stood over the leader, who was zip-tied to a chair—fingers on his right hand already broken at unnatural angles and swelling rapidly. The man’s smirk faltered when he saw me.

  I smiled at him warmly, then turned to Richard.

  “Any developments while I was occupied?”

  Richard glanced at me—then at the hallway behind me, where faint whimpers still echoed. He shook his head slowly.

  “Minus the corpses and cryptic symbols, this one had seven envelopes—invitations to the underground ring you mentioned. We’ve identified three locations.” He snapped his fingers; a nearby officer handed him a folded map marked with three red circles. “Seven invitations total. Two locations get two undercover operators each; the third gets three. I was thinking you and I take this one—” He tapped the furthest circle. “Operation goes live in three days. Prepare.”

  I nodded once. Then I looked back at the leader. His smirk had returned—faint, knowing.

  “Might I borrow this one?” I asked Richard pleasantly. “My previous… diversion broke rather quickly. I find myself in need of a replacement.”

  Richard studied me for several long seconds. “No,” he said firmly.

  I considered this.

  I reject the verdict.

  Then I expanded the leader’s shadow beneath the chair—darkness surging upward like a rising tide. He screamed as it swallowed him whole, dragging him down into nothingness.

  I turned to Richard with a serene smile. “I shall see you in three days.”

  His glare followed me as I departed the room.