Williams smiled. His eyes gleamed with cruel delight as he reached for the weapon leaning against the wall: a bat forged with sun shards.
He looked up at her, meeting her terrified eyes, and then he swung.
The first blow cracked against her shoulder, a sickening crunch reverberating through the room. Isolde held her scream.
Williams didn't stop. He hit her again, harder, the bat slamming into her arms, her face. He struck with the efficiency of a butcher and the artistry of a sadist, each blow measured, meant to disfigure but not kill. Her robe tore, skin splitting.
He hit her until her pale flesh began to blister and peel, the sun shard's searing touch burning her skin. He hit her until bone groaned, until her beauty was gone, replaced with grotesque swelling, purple bruises, and torn flesh.
Isolde's cries weakened into whimpers, then into silence. She collapsed onto the floor, barely moving, breath shallow.
