Episode (1) part (2)

From the Ashes!

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Astia’s eyes boiled with rage; her black pupils grew so dark they seemed to swallow the cell’s night.  

With that cloying, possessive smile, Raymond was openly telling her: You are just a toy. Something to be used whenever I please—whenever my fiancée is busy or I lack the mood for her—ready and available, without question.  

A replacement for empty moments.  

A short, dry laugh escaped her throat, echoing through the stone chamber and briefly halting Raymond.  

“Hah…”  

“Did you really think I’d spread my legs for you now?”  

She spoke calmly, but each word sliced the air like a blade.  

Raymond raised an eyebrow; his smile dimmed, though he still tried to maintain control.  

“Why not? You always gave in eventually.”  

Astia leaned slightly forward; the chain rattled, its metallic clank loud in the quiet.  

“Those days are over, Raymond.”  

Her eyes flashed.  

After a brief pause, a small smile curved her lips—one clearly visible even in absolute darkness. After all that heavy silence, her expression suddenly transformed.  

“Raymond… you truly are a fool. I almost pity you.”  

Anger flashed across his face at those words, though he tried to mask it with a forced smile.  

“Starting with the nonsense again, huh? You damned whore—when will you finally drop that cursed pride of yours?”  

Astia’s sneer deepened. With a meaningful glance, she gestured toward her faded chains.  

“Are you going to deny that I was stronger than you? Between us, one had to be eliminated in the end. You thought you won by removing me, but you’re sorely mistaken. I am the one who willingly let you take the throne. That crown was worth nothing to me.”  

Raymond stopped breathing for several seconds. His bloodshot eyes glinted in the dark. At that exact moment, the silver moonlight vanished behind clouds, leaving the cell in total darkness. The air now carried the unmistakable scent of death.  

“I’ve tolerated you long enough. Now that Raphael has abdicated and handed the throne to me, the first thing I’ll do is cut off that cursed head of yours…”  

He rose abruptly, seized her long hair in his fist, and dragged her across the floor. The chains only reached the edge of the wall. Astia’s legs burned from the pull; her scalp felt as though it were being torn away.  

Raymond slammed her onto her back on the cold stone, then drove his knees into her chest and straddled her, pinning her in place. Her breath caught beneath his crushing weight. His furious hands tore at her collar; fabric ripped with a violent jerk, buttons scattering across the floor. He tried to strip away the remaining clothes, his harsh breathing hot against her face.  

But Astia did not surrender. With every ounce of strength left, she drew up her legs and drove her knee hard into his side. At the same moment, she raised her chained hands and dug her nails into his arm. A muffled scream of rage escaped her as she tried to bite his wrist.  

“Get off me…!” The taste of blood filled her mouth.  

Raymond roared in fury, yanked his hand back, and struck her face with a closed fist. Her cheek burned; white stars danced before her eyes for an instant.  

“Deranged bitch!” he snarled, voice thick with blind rage.  

His right hand clamped around her slender throat like a claw and began to squeeze.  

His fingers dug deep into her skin; her breath stopped. Her lungs blazed. Her legs thrashed helplessly against the cold floor as she struggled, but Raymond’s weight pressed down like a gravestone.  

He watched her struggle and paling face with a cold, contemptuous smirk. His red eyes gleamed in the darkness, as if he were savoring the moment. Then, in a soft—almost tender—voice that was more terrifying than any shout, he whispered:  

“Don’t be afraid, Astia… your time has come. Everything will end soon. So please… just die. I’ll take care of the rest. Die in peace…”  

In that moment of darkness and agony, her eye caught something: one of the old chains once fastened to her left wrist now hung loose. Its metal ring had widened—perhaps from earlier struggles, perhaps from age. It was longer than the others, reaching nearly to the wall.  

With whatever strength remained, Astia stretched her trembling fingers across the cold floor until they brushed the chain.  

She touched the frozen metal, grasped it—tightly.  

In one swift, desperate motion, she whipped the chain upward and looped it around Raymond’s neck—precisely, firmly, like a serpent swallowing its prey.  

For a fraction of a second, Raymond froze. His red eyes widened; the smirk on his lips turned to ice.  

His hand, still around her throat, instinctively loosened and fell away—as if his body had only just realized predator and prey had switched places.  

Astia pulled both ends of the chain with every shred of hatred and power surging through her. The cold metal sank deep into the flesh of his neck. A rasping choke escaped his throat.  

Raymond thrashed. His hands clawed at the chain, trying to wedge fingers beneath it, but Astia pulled harder. She threw her weight backward for leverage. His face turned red, then purple. Veins bulged on his forehead; his eyes protruded.  

Breathing in harsh, ragged gasps, blood dripping from her bruised cheek, Astia leaned close to his ear and whispered in a cold, steady voice filled with certainty:  

“Even if I died… I would return. I would keep returning until I relived this moment again and again and again.”  

The chain sank another millimeter deeper. Raymond’s choking now sounded like a dying cricket.  

With a final, full-bodied yank, the sickening crack of cartilage echoed through the silent cell like a dry branch snapping.  

His body stiffened for an instant, hands falling limply onto the chain, then went slack.  

Astia released it. Raymond’s heavy corpse rolled aside with a soft thud and slumped onto the cold floor.  

Now only Astia’s ragged breathing filled the space.  

The cell suddenly felt more terrifying than ever; absolute darkness enveloped her like a living thing. The stench of blood, sweat, and death weighed heavily in the air.  

Shadows seemed to shift; walls closed in; the silence was so profound that her own heartbeat thundered in her ears like drums.  

Then the clouds parted.  

Silver moonlight returned, streaming through the scattered gaps between the wall bricks—those small, forgotten openings. Thin, trembling beams danced across the stone floor, like fingers trying to push back the dark.  

Still on her knees, Astia scanned her surroundings. The cell door remained open; the keys hung from Raymond’s belt.  

She lowered her gaze to her trembling hands. Her fingers shook.  

Then her eyes settled on Raymond’s lifeless body, sprawled motionless, his once-red eyes now empty and dull, the chain still coiled around his neck.  

Astia drew a deep breath. For the first time in ages, a bitter smile touched her lips. She truly considered her situation for the first time.  

If she encountered the guards now, they would execute her without question for murdering the crown prince.  

She was already imprisoned here on charges of treason.  

Her gaze fell on Raymond’s belt. She quickly leaned over, still-shaking fingers reaching to unhook the key ring. She tried them one by one until she found the right ones—the locks on her ankles clicked open softly.  

All the chains—hands and feet—now lay loose and useless on the floor.  

She opened the cell door with a larger key. The hinges groaned in protest, but amid the chaos above, no one seemed to hear.  

In her disheveled state—tangled hair, torn and bloodied clothes—she ran toward the narrow stairs leading out of the dungeon.  

Her legs ached from long disuse, but adrenaline burned through her veins like fire.  

She climbed several steps in pitch blackness, panting, steadying herself against the damp walls.  

Suddenly, shouts, screams, and the clash of metal reached her clearly. Her heart pounded faster.  

When she reached the main dungeon door, she peered through the half-open crack into the palace hall—and her breath caught.  

The reason for her imprisonment in that dark cell was her aid to the angels during the recent war between Heaven and Hell; she had fought against Hell itself. After a month of battle, she had surrendered voluntarily and been thrown straight into this dungeon. She had lost all sense of time—days? weeks? months? years?—in that absolute darkness.  

And now, with her own eyes, she saw the war was over. Until moments ago, the demons had believed they were winning. They had been gravely mistaken.  

Corpses of demons lay scattered across the black marble floors of the palace. Their thick black blood had merged with the stone, as if becoming part of the ancient decor. The lavish party of the night had transformed into a vast, bloody funeral; the air reeked of death and scorched metal.  

She blinked several times, rubbed her eyes, but the scene remained unchanged. Her heart raced faster—torn and bloodstained clothes, wild hair, bruised face. If the heavenly knights spotted her, they might drive their swords into her chest without a single question. In this chaos, any suspicious shadow could become the next target.

── End of Episode 1 ──