“You crawl well,” she said. “But posture is not obedience. Still too much pride behind your spine.”
She circled him again. Always circling. He was her center. Her axis. Her specimen.
“Today,” she said, “we begin the Ritual of Ash. Do you know why it’s called that?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Because ash is what’s left after the fire. After the ego is gone. After the man is burned away.”
She snapped her fingers. Two attendants — masked, silent, and identical — entered with a black padded table and a small steel tray. On the tray: clamps, silk blindfold, and a smooth, spherical stone.
Elias was led to the table and strapped down. Ankles. Wrists. Thighs spread wide.
Mistress Seraphine held the stone in her hand. “Cold, isn’t it? This is Vanta. Obsidian carved from the core of a collapsed temple in Iceland. Do you know what obsidian is used for?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Surgery.”
She placed the stone between his bound legs. Gently. But deliberately. Right beneath the cage. He flinched.
She smiled.
“Good.”
Then came the first strike.
Not with a whip. Not with a fist.
Her knee.
A sharp, fast motion — calculated. Direct. Bone into steel. The sound was not a scream, but a hollow exhale, ripped from his lungs by reflex and disbelief.
His vision blurred. Pressure behind his eyes. Pain — brilliant and deep — radiated up through his spine, blooming like a poisoned flower.
“That,” she said calmly, “was the bell. Now we begin.”