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“Stop,” Emerie whispered, her legs wobbling like she was going to pass out. “Stop torturing him.”

When they didn’t, a blaze lit up within her. She bolted forward to grab the arm of the doctor to stop him. She never made it there.

Two Elders grabbed her and forced her back. She attempted to claw and kick forward, her feet scraping and sliding against the ground as she fought.

“I said fucking stop!”

“Hold her there,” Wren commanded, before she came over to grasp Emerie’s jaw and keep her gaze steady on her older reflection. “You are just like me. From your face, to your abilities, to you wanting to save this horrible creature.” She yanked Emerie’s face forward with her nose crinkled in determination. “And just like me, you will be better for witnessing this – just as I was once forced to.”

For the first time since she’d joined the guild, Emerie no longer cared to follow the rules. She didn’t want to do as she was told, to stand there quietly and turn a blind eye to what was happening around her.

“I hope to the gods that a Demon eats me if I turn out like you.”

Wren chuckled and released her face so she could playfully tap her cheek. “Atta girl. That resolve will be the reason people will blindly follow you.”

“Why don’t you choose someone who actually wants to take over your position?” Emerie bit through gritted teeth, her eyes dark and narrowed.

“Because those that don’t crave a seat of power are often the ones most suited for it.” Then Wren turned back to witnessing the doctor pull out other... inhuman parts of the Duskwalker. “Keep her awake. It’s going to be a long night.”

It had already been far too long.

Against her will, Emerie was shoved back into the Duskwalker’s holding cell the following night.

She’d barely slept a wink.

The sun had been breaking through the clouds when she was finally pulled from this dungeon the first time and locked inside a bedroom. It wasn’t her own, and it wasn’t even near the normal sleeping dorms. She was being kept separated from the rest of the guild.

Sleep had eluded her.

Then she had been taken to Wren, who explained her new tasks, what was to be expected of her, and how things were going to operate for Emerie from now on.

Anytime she spoke out against it, Wren silenced her – or just outright ignored her outrage.

Apparently, she’d been put in Emerie’s exact same position once, but with a Demon they wanted to dissect while it was alive. That was many years ago, and her Head Elder at the time had seen potential in her, just like Wren did in Emerie.

Honestly, it was like the crazy bitch wanted someone to suffer the pain she had. Just because they wore the same facial scar, just because they were similar people, didn’t mean they were thesameperson. People in the same environment with the same life experiences often became very different.

Emerie knew she could never become someone like Wren. It just wasn’t in her to order something so despicable as torture.

She hated Demons, despised them, but not even she would do something so horrible to one of them. No matter how much she tried to explain this, Wren refused to listen.

The Head Elder was adamant about her choice, and that she would break Emerie of her fears and disgust. Being forced into this dungeon again as a cleaning maid was apparently just the beginning.

What God did I piss off to be subjected to this nightmare?

Her grip tightened on the mop and bucket that had been shoved into her hands. She shuddered as she took in the Duskwalker.

His scales, covered in dried purple blood, glistened in the low firelight. His tail was trapped to his ankles, but the base of it was visible through his parted knees. He looked helpless with the rope and chains binding almost every moving part of his body, but the lizard spikes that covered him allowed him to keep his fierceness.

The protruding white bones that covered most of his body were stark against his black, oil-slick scales and dark-grey skin. His raven skull, with empty eye sockets filled with white orbs, was hard to look upon.

She wished his natural features were the most harrowing part of him, but they weren’t what caused her to grip her mop and bucket handles harder.

They hadn’t even bothered to close his chest cavity, not that she thought it would have been possible. His wound looked gnarly, and she had to immediately turn her gaze away in shame.

It was too painful to look at him. She wished she couldn’t hear him wheezing in agony. He didn’t even have the strength to growl at her, instead kneeling limply with his arms chained behind him.

Wren probably thought it would help to desensitize her to all the blood, gore, and his whimpers, but it only made her stomach twist and her heart ache for him.