Page 8 of Bound By the Beast Man

DIANA

I am adrift in the familiar, suffocating darkness when the change begins, a shift in the very fabric of my prison.

The constant, low hum of the coffin's magic, a thrumming vibration that has been the background noise of my existence for years, suddenly changes in pitch.

It is a subtle alteration, but in my sensory-deprived world, it is as loud and jarring as a thunderclap.

My first reaction is a cold spike of fear, a feeling I thought had been numbed out of me long ago.

The Purna are doing something new. A new experiment is beginning.

I brace my consciousness for a new kind of pain, a new violation.

But the feeling that follows is not cold or malicious.

It is something else entirely, a presence that brushes against the edges of my mind like a warm hand reaching through the void.

It is a feeling so alien, so contrary to the cold cruelty of my captors, that I almost dismiss it as a hallucination, another trick of a mind that has been isolated for far too long.

Yet, it persists. It is a steady warmth, a gentle pressure against the magical cage that surrounds me.

It feels like a promise, a question, a call from a world I thought I had lost forever.

Yet now, something other than despair stirs within me.

It is a flicker of curiosity, a fragile tendril of an emotion I can barely name.

I am so used to being a passive observer of my own torment, a helpless victim of my looping memories.

But this new presence. It feels like an anchor, something solid in the endless, shifting sea of my consciousness.

It is a single point of light in an eternity of darkness, and I find myself, against all reason, reaching for it.

With a will I did not know I still possessed, I strain toward the new presence.

I pull on a thread of mental strength that has lain dormant for years, buried under layers of grief and hopelessness.

No longer the passive victim in my own mind.

I am actively reaching, pushing against the suffocating darkness, my entire being focused on that single point of warmth.

It’s clear I am swimming up from the deepest part of the ocean, fighting against a current that wants to pull me back down into the abyss.

The effort is immense, a silent scream of exertion in the void.

As I push closer, a voice speaks directly into my mind. Not a sound but a thought, a presence given form and substance. It is a deep, masculine voice, and it resonates with a power that makes the Purna’s magic feel brittle and thin. And it speaks my name.

Diana.

The shock of it is a blow. To hear my own name, to be acknowledged as a person after being a thing, a specimen, for so long, is overwhelming.

Tears I cannot physically shed burn behind my eyes.

And with the voice comes a flood of feelings that are not my own, but are directed at me.

I feel an unshakeable sense of safety, a warmth that chases the deep, eternal cold from my soul.

And beneath it all, there is something else, something fierce and fiercely protective.

It feels like a shield, a promise, a fortress wall rising up around me.

It is the complete antithesis of the cold, cruel magic of my captors.

This is not a violation. This is a rescue.

The feelings are so powerful, so real, that a new fear takes hold.

This must be a dream. It is a new and far crueler illusion created by the Purna to torment me, to give me a taste of hope before ripping it away and plunging me back into an even deeper despair.

I almost pull back, ready to retreat into the familiar numbness that has been my only defense for so long.

But the feeling of safety is too profound, too absolute to be a simple trick.

It is not a lie. It feels like destiny. It feels like a lifeline thrown into my abyss.

I must answer. I have to let this stranger know that I am here, that I am aware.

The hope is a fragile, terrifying thing, a tiny flame in a hurricane, but I must guard it.

I must feed it. I muster all of my will, focusing every last ounce of my consciousness into a single, desperate thought.

The effort is staggering after years of passivity.

It is like trying to shout after having your throat cut.

I do not know his name. I do not know who he is or what he is. But I can feel the shape of him in my mind, a being of honor and strength. I push my thoughts toward him, a fragile whisper sent out into the void.

I am here.

Can he even hear me? Is it even my voice? Silent for so many years, can even break through the magical barriers of my prison. But I am unwilling to let this chance, this single, impossible spark of hope, slip away.

I continue to reach for him, clinging to his presence like a drowning woman clinging to a piece of driftwood.

I am not just surviving. I am fighting.