That dim, ground-floor room had now been twisted into a grotesque work of art.
Bloodstains and dismembered corpses were strewn about like ornaments.
At the very center of the room, the masterpiece of this horrific tableau, hung Silas.
His body was suspended like prey by thorny ice vines that snaked down from the ceiling. A few of his fingers had been severed at the root, and patches of his skin had been skillfully flayed.
But he was still alive, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
After my little session of torture, I healed his most fatal wounds with the warmth of the sacred mana seeping from my fingertips.
He would not die, at least not yet.
Then, I formed a small orb of water in the air and flung it at his unconscious face.
Silas jolted awake violently, shocked by the icy water. His eyes widened in horror as they took in the massacre around him and his own pathetic state.
Directly across from him, I sat on a simple wooden chair of my own creation.
