The walls of the ice dungeon were alive with frost, and the air reeked of despair, tainted with tears that never reached the floor.
At the far end of the dungeon, a figure bunched against the wall like a broken twig.
Lyrian.
But the proud, golden-haired demon who had once graced Elrien's bed was gone. In his place cowered a shell that housed too many souls screaming for dominance.
The physical affliction was as cruel as the mental torment, frostbite had claimed every one of his blackened limbs, his nails had completely fallen and the floor around him was slick with frozen blood because the ice never let the wound heal, leaving its victims half-dead and half-preserved.
It didn't matter how long had passed, one never got used to the eternity of cold…nor the curse.
"Please don't hurt me," Lyrian whispered in a childlike voice to invisible tormentors, "I didn't mean to spill the wine."
