The air in the windowless room was thick with a chilling silence, broken only by the rhythmic drip of blood from chained wrists onto the cold stone floor. Megara Daybrace, a silhouette against the flickering lamplight, stood unyielding. Her white robe, once pristine, was now a tapestry of old and new bloodstains, a testament to a week of relentless torture.

Her mouth was magically sealed, her fingers broken—every avenue for her powerful magic, blocked. Yet, she stood with an unbowed posture, her green eyes cold and devoid of tears, reflecting a will forged in defiance.

Footsteps echoed, growing louder, heavy with anger. The door splintered inward with a violent kick, revealing a tall, pale figure. Evandros Linya, leader of the notorious Linya Clan, stood before her, his dark eyes like abyssal voids, mirroring the screams of his victims.

"Even after all this," his voice, deep and chilling, cut through the silence, "I still see no reaction on your face. You are truly from the Liberation Front, from the Scarlet Blossom Clan."

He advanced, closing the distance between them. Megara's gaze, though lowered, held an icy defiance. He spoke of delicacy, of women who trembled before him, contrasting it with her unyielding presence. Her soft snort of disdain fueled his anger.

His pale hand, veins visible beneath the skin, reached out, caressing a fresh streak of blood on her cheek. A jolt, a recoil. Megara flinched as if burned, chains rattling loudly as she pulled away, furiously rubbing her cheek. Disgust flashed in her eyes.

"I see," he whispered, a hint of dark satisfaction in his voice. Nothing had made her react like his touch. A thrill of excitement, for he loved pain, and now, he had found a new way to inflict it. Their souls were entangled, a fate neither acknowledged, yet their silent war had just begun.