Chapter 16- The Endurance

The cold stone walls of the Chirosa Dominion's torture chamber echoed with silence—an oppressive, suffocating silence that wrapped around every breath, every heartbeat, every hidden cry. The underground chambers beneath the Citadel echoed with the occasional drip of water, but otherwise, it was consumed by suffocating silence. It wasn't a silence of peace. No, it was the kind that screamed with unsaid truths, the kind that wrapped itself around your lungs and refused to let go. Lit only by the faint flicker of enchanted torches, the chamber bore witness to centuries of pain, discipline, and punishment. Today, it bore witness to the suffering of a prince.

Charvi was not supposed to be there. She had been warned. Advised. Pleaded with. Told again and again not to witness what was about to unfold—not for her safety, but for her sanity.

Her presence had been forbidden, deemed too risky, too revealing. But she had insisted. She had fought against every caution, every order, every protective spell placed around her. Because the man in that chamber—battered, bound, and bloodied—was enduring pain meant for her.

The scent of burning silver mixed with dried blood clung to the air, sharp and unforgiving. And in the heart of it, she stood.

She wasn't supposed to be here. Her orders had been clear—remain hidden, for her safety, for the greater cause. She had even agreed to it at first. But when she learned of the punishment—of what they were going to do to him—the thought of staying away became unbearable.

Now she regretted it. Not because she had come. But because she could do nothing. The sight before her eyes was unbearable.

Charvi pressed her back against the cold stone wall, fingers clenched so tightly around the edge of her cloak that her knuckles had turned white. From the shadows, she watched him.

Prince Agnirasva Vaystriel—Agira, the silent anomaly, the half-blood warrior who had rescued her without a moment's hesitation.

He stood chained to the ancient obsidian pillars, his arms spread, back exposed, wrists shackled in rings laced with molten silver. The silver sizzled where it met his skin, biting into his flesh as though punishing him for existing. His body was already bruised, streaked with cuts from past battles and new lash marks from the sentence handed down earlier that morning.

His legs trembled, not from fear, but exhaustion. She could see it. The subtle, involuntary twitch of his muscles. The way his breathing had become shallower. He had been without nourishment, rest, or healing. And yet, he stood.

The lash fell.

Charvi flinched.

It echoed through the chamber with a horrifying crack, slicing across his back and leaving a fresh line of torn flesh. She expected him to scream—hoped, even, in some twisted corner of her heart, that he would scream.

But he didn't.

He didn't make a sound.

The guards exchanged uneasy glances. Even they were beginning to falter in their task. There was something unnatural about the silence that followed each strike. As if the absence of his cry was worse than hearing his pain.

Agnirasva Vaystriel, the Silent Anomaly, stood bound to the silver-etched post.

His back, once marked with regal strength and pride, was now streaked with ribbons of torn flesh. Silver whips cracked through the air, each lash igniting a searing hiss against his skin. Silver burned vampire flesh. But for Agira—whose body defied the norms of both human and vampire blood—the pain was unlike any other. His healing was slow. Too slow.

Charvi had seen pain before. She had seen warriors die on battlefields and had watched cursed souls writhe under exorcism rites. But nothing—nothing—prepared her for this.

He did not scream. Not once.

"Forty-five," one muttered.

Charvi bit down on her trembling lip until she tasted blood.

She turned away for a moment, her vision swimming, but her eyes were drawn back again. She had never seen anything like it. A vampire prince—wounded, betrayed, condemned by his blood—yet still choosing to protect her identity.

At fifty, he finally faltered. His knees buckled slightly, but he caught himself. His head dipped, sweat mingling with blood, dripping to the stone floor. Yet when his eyes rose, they met Kael's—his brother, who stood not far, hands trembling at his sides, unable to intervene.

Kael crumbled. He turned his back for a moment, shoulders heaving.

Even when the fiftieth lash tore open an old scar that hadn't fully healed, even when the blood soaked through the floor and his knees trembled with the weight of his own body, Agira stayed silent. The only sound he made was a heavy exhale between gritted teeth. And in the moment his strength faltered, when he nearly collapsed, he looked up—

Agira smiled.

It was a small smile. Broken. Bloody. But it was real.

It was faint, nearly imperceptible, but it was there. A curve of his lips. Directed at Kael, who stood at the front of the chamber, fists clenched, jaw tight, unable to move without risking both their lives. That smile was a lifeline. A whisper that said: "I'm alright. Don't break for me."

Kael was already broken.

He couldn't look away from his brother, not even when tears brimmed his golden eyes. "Why..." he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "Why do you always have to carry it alone?"

Then came the voice that turned the chamber colder.

"Is that it?" Zephiron Vaystriel, Crown Prince of Chirosa, stepped through the chamber doors. His crimson cape dragged lightly behind him, untouched by dust or blood. His voice cut through the room like a polished dagger. "Fifty lashes, and he still stands?"

Agira's head lifted slowly, his breath laboured but his gaze unshaken.

Zephiron walked forward, eyes gleaming with a predator's curiosity. "It seems the executioner is holding back. Or perhaps the Half-Blood is finally showing some resilience."

He turned to the guards. "Bring the herbs. Let's make this... educational."

Two servants emerged with bowls filled with a thick, glistening substance—a mixture of magical herbs and salts known to inflame pain and slow healing. It was used in interrogations, rarely in punishment. But then, Agira had never been just another prince.

The moment the mixture touched his wounds, Agira's body stiffened. The flesh sizzled as if it were fire against snow. The air grew heavier, and even the guards flinched. Charvi's breath caught in her throat. Her heart shattered.

She moved. She stepped forward, out of the shadows, trembling.

Until a bloody hand lifted from the post and gestured.

Agira.

Even chained, even bleeding, even as he burned—he had felt her move.

Stop.

"Don't," he whispered. "You're supposed to be hidden."

Her breath caught. Tears spilt silently down her cheeks. Her knees gave out, and she sank into the corner again, sobbing into her sleeve, muffling every sound.

His fingers, trembling and weak, signed one message: You must remain hidden.

A soft rustle behind her signaled another presence.

"He had a feeling you'd try to reach out," said a soft voice. A girl with chestnut-brown hair and sharp eyes stepped forward. "I'm Mevira Lenra. I was sent to attend to you—on the prince's orders. He knew you'd come."

Charvi turned, still watching the scene. "How... how can he endure so much?"

Mevira looked down. "Because he always has. Since the day he was born, he's been punished for simply existing. His birth, his blood, his silence... everything about him is an affront to this court. Burning wounds, cursed branding, mind-break enchantments. He was the half-blood they didn't want. So they tested him. Over and over."

Charvi's voice was hollow. "And he knew this would happen if he helped me?"

Mevira nodded. "Yes. He chose this."

"But why?" Charvi's fists trembled. "Why would anyone bear so much pain for someone they don't even know?"

Mevira met her eyes with a sad smile. "Because that's who he is. The Silent Anomaly. The boy who never screamed when they branded him with silver. The prince who refused to drink blood even when it meant starvation. The shadow who protects with no need for thanks."

Charvi looked back at Agira.

He was still standing.

Barely. His eyes were glazed, body shaking, but he hadn't fallen. And when the whip cracked again—he bit into his lip, drawing blood, but did not cry out.

Tears slid down Charvi's cheeks.

She had come as an envoy of truth. But in this chamber, she had learned a deeper truth than any prophecy or divine vision could offer.

Pain could be endured.

Pride could be stripped.

But compassion? Compassion was the one thing they could not take from him.

And in that moment, she understood something else—something far more dangerous.

Agira didn't endure for glory.

He endured so others wouldn't have to.

Another lash echoed through the room.

And still, the prince stood.

Still, he did not scream.

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