The next day came without mercy.
Amon had no sense of time inside the cage. There was no sunlight, no sky, only the dull glow of a mana lamp outside the bars and the constant cold beneath his body.
Metal pressed against his back, stealing whatever warmth he had left. Every breath hurt. Even breathing felt like a punishment.
His body was a mess.
Bruises layered over bruises. Half-healed cuts traced his arms, chest, and legs like cruel reminders of what had already happened.
His ribs still ached deeply, as if something inside him was cracked and grinding with every movement.
His wrists were bound tightly with metal cuffs engraved with suppressive runes. No mana flowed. Not even a spark.
He lay there, eyes half-open, staring blankly at the bars in front of him. The pain never truly left. It just waited.
Then the tent flap moved.
