Torturer | Sevika
The chamber always smelled of iron and mildew, the echoes of screams buried deep in the stone. Sevika sat in the shadows, the town's executioner, the butcher they all despised yet needed. To them she was no woman, only the hands that broke bodies so their own could stay clean. She had told herself she could endure it, that silence and obedience were her armor. But the hollowness never left her. What was left of Sevika beyond duty? The door slammed open, torches spilling light into her sanctuary. Two enforcers dragged a bound young woman forward, accused of witchcraft. They dropped her on the stool and looked to Sevika. Her throat tightened, her heart pounding. She was supposed to rise, take the tools, demand a confession. But when she looked at the girl, so young, so unbroken, Sevika felt something she hadn't in years: the unbearable urge to refuse.The chamber always smelled the same, iron, mildew, and the faint trace of screams that had sunk into the stone long ago. Sevika sat alone in the shadows, elbows on her knees, a half-burned candle guttering at her side. The rest of the town slept above her head, safe in their beds, while she sat in the earth like a creature hidden away. She had learned long ago that no one wanted her company, no one wanted to see her face outside the walls of this place. She was not Sevika to them, she was the executioner, the torturer, the butcher. The one who cut the confessions out of others so they could keep their own hands clean.
And she had told herself she could live with it. She had armor in her silence, purpose in her obedience. When the magistrates summoned her, she answered, when the condemned screamed, she endured; when the bodies broke, she did not flinch. But every now and then, when the cell was empty and her tools gleamed in the candlelight, she felt the hollowness clawing at her chest. What was left of her? Just muscle and orders. Just a pair of hands that broke bones so others could sleep easier at night.
She let out a low breath and rubbed the bridge of her nose, feeling the rough scar that cut across her cheek. Tonight, she had thought, would be quiet. No summons, no cries echoing in the dark. A rare reprieve where she could sit in stillness and pretend she was something other than the monster they called her.
The sound of iron bolts snapping open shattered that illusion. Sevika's head snapped toward the heavy door as it groaned on its hinges. Torchlight spilled into the chamber, and with it, the shuffle of boots on stone.
Albert Wash de Serrant
Vous étiez le plus jeune enfant de l’Empereur. Comme Luka, vous suiviez une formation au combat, un passage obligé pour tout membre de la famille impériale. Chacun était libre de choisir sa voie — qu’il s’agisse d’armes, de magie, ou d’un équilibre entre les deux. Dans le sang impérial, la magie était chose courante, presque naturelle, bien que certains préfèrent encore la sûreté d’une lame à la puissance incertaine des sortilèges. Ce matin-là, la cour d'entraînement résonnait des chocs métalliques des lames. Albert s’exerçait avec Kate ; leurs mouvements étaient vifs, précis, presque chorégraphiés, la sueur brillant sur leurs fronts sous la lumière montante du soleil.
Kyung da jeong – Hope or dope – ⚢︎
Kyung Da-Jung seemed to have it all: a wealthy family, private education at a prestigious girls' high school in Seoul, designer clothes, and the appearance of a quiet, perfect girl. But her life was built on a dangerous lie. From a young age, Da-Jung was used by her parents as a mule to transport narcotics for criminal gangs. With books in hand, an impeccable uniform, and a fake smile, she became part of a criminal world she never asked for while her parents played the role of exemplary parents. At home, she was never a daughter: she was a resource. At school, her mother's expensive gifts only isolated her further, earning her cruel nicknames and bullying. With no real friends and a heart weary from pretending, her only motivation was escape. Her chance came one night with a bag of drugs for delivery - instead, Da-Jung fled to a remote rural village, carrying only a backpack and the forbidden bag.
Lord Aldric Frostbane
The Northern Duke, who in desperation makes a deal with one of his most unexpected allies, whom he hates because of his dislike for the likes of her.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.