Deep beneath the stone foundations of the Sanctum, in a chamber choked with darkness, sweat and blood, the air sat thick like old oil—used, dirty, and slow to move. The flickering torchlight along the chamber’s edges did little to illuminate the room. Instead, it painted the walls in writhing shadows, like worms twisting across damp stone.
And there he sat.
Van Dijk, once Tower Master of the Black Circle. Now a prisoner of the Holy Order.
He looked like a man carved up for study—slumped forward, his arms pinned to the chair’s cold iron by hooks and straps and divine glyphs carved into rust-worn restraints. His fingers were split and scabbed. One of his nails dangled loose, half torn away. His ribs were visible through a mixture of burnt skin and deep bruises, as if someone had flayed him with dull silver and holy spite.
But his posture was relaxed.
Almost too relaxed.
He slouched as if lounging in a tavern chair, not a torture device. His face—bloodied though it was—wore an expression of near boredom. His eyes, when they opened, were clear and terribly calm.
He was waiting.
Two men stood before him. Executioners in spirit, interrogators by trade. Their robes, once white, were stained dark with blood and sweat and soot. Their eyes held not conviction—but fatigue. Hollow. Exhausted. Broken down by the very process they were meant to command.
And still Van Dijk grinned at them.
“C’mon,” he said, his voice smooth and unbothered. “I had better tools than that. Are you seriously trying to pull the fingernail off in one go?”
The interrogators froze. Their hands trembled.
“You’re not supposed to rip it,” Van Dijk continued, almost as if delivering a masterclass. “That dulls the pain too fast. The best way to really make it last…” he leaned forward just slightly, enough to rattle the chains, “is to slide a thin nail or splinter under the fingernail—right between the skin and the bed—and then hammer it in gently.”
He offered them a smile—red-stained teeth and all.
“Yank it too soon, and you miss out on so much suffering.”
One of the men looked like he might vomit.
Van Dijk tilted his head, licking his cracked lip.
“And the salt,” he added. “You really think that works on me? I’m not human, gentlemen. I’m not bound by your feeble little anatomy tricks.”
There was no bravado in his tone. No posturing. It was just truth.
Cold, clinical truth.
Suddenly, the door groaned open behind them.
The torchlight shifted.
Footsteps echoed—slow, confident, deliberate.
An old man entered first—robes of high-ranking clergy trailing behind him like a dying flame. His face was pale with age, his jaw clenched with suppressed disgust. Following him was a boy, no older than twelve or thirteen, his pale eyes strangely placid.
The room seemed to still.
The two torturers stiffened and backed away at once.
“By the gods…” the old man muttered, eyes locked on the prisoner. “Is he still alive?”
Van Dijk straightened slightly in his chair, expression brightening.
“Oh, Cardinal,” he said cheerfully. “Pleasure to see you again.”
The Cardinal’s mouth tightened like a snare. “Van Dijk,” he said. The name fell from his lips like spitting ash.
“And this,” Van Dijk continued, nodding toward the boy, “must be the little beast from that day. Quite the talents you’re grooming. Terrifying little thing.”
The boy didn’t answer. He only smiled. A strange, quiet smile.
“Leave us,” the Cardinal ordered sharply.
The two bloodied men bowed and left without protest.
Van Dijk rolled his shoulders. The shackles creaked in protest.
“So,” he said, gaze flicking between Cardinal and child, “what can I do for you?”
“You know what we want,” the Cardinal replied, his voice low and strained. “Tell us where the undead you fostered is hiding.”
Van Dijk didn’t blink.
“I told you before,” he said with a mild shrug, “I don’t do necromancy. Swore upon my House. You were there.”
“There were traces of dark magic—undeniable—in your Black Tower,” the Cardinal snapped. “Don’t insult us by playing coy.”
Van Dijk smirked. “I would never insult you. You do a fine job of that yourself.”
The Cardinal opened his mouth—but before he could speak, the boy took a step forward.
“Let me ask him, Father.”
The Cardinal blinked. “Are you sure?”
“I was instructed to.”
He stepped closer to Van Dijk.
And his eyes changed.
His irises flattened, turning square at the edges. His pupils dilated unnaturally, stretching outward like ink spilled on parchment. An unseen pressure filled the room—not a sound, but a sensation. Wet, slithering, ancient.
Something looked through the boy.
Something watched.
“Are you the one who created the undead named Ludwig?” the boy—Mot—asked.
Van Dijk’s expression shifted.
For the first time, he flinched.
The tendrils of perception—the sick, damp threads of something else—began to wrap around his mind. He felt the weight of it. A gaze not from eyes, but from the pit of a forgotten universe.
“No,” he said, tone sharp. “I had no hand in such matters.”
the pressure eased when the boy backed away, while the Cardinal stepped forward, watching carefully.
“That’s strange,” he said. “Because records say you mentored him. You trained him in—”
Van Dijk felt the compulsion from earlier completely disappear, and he realized it only works if he was asked by the boy not the cardinal.
“I don’t believe that the boy Ludwig Heart is an undead, he’s just a simple boy,” Van Dijk cut in. He turned to face the Cardinal fully. “If he was , I would’ve noticed. I’m a master of Black Magic. You think I wouldn’t recognize an undead creature under my nose?”
The Cardinal hesitated.
Van Dijk’s words rang too confidently to be bluster.
“Let me continue,” Mot said as he felt that the hold he had on Van Dijk was waning. “Do you know where Ludwig Heart is now?”
Van Dijk shook his head. “Could be anywhere. And if I’m being honest…” His eyes narrowed. “I wish I knew who spread that nonsense. My tower’s in ruins now. My wards shattered. I’d very much like to thank them. “
He said it lightly.
But it wasn’t a joke.
Mot tilted his head. “It was one of your disciples.”
The room froze.
“Saint Mot!” the Cardinal shouted.
Mot did not flinch. “He already knew.”
Van Dijk’s smile turned colder.
“Of course it was, those talentless fools, to dare accuse someone of Dark Magic, even their Tower Master…” he said.
Mot didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“Back away from him,” the Cardinal said suddenly. “He’s dangerous.”
“There is nothing dangerous about him,” Mot replied without hesitation.
“Oh?” Van Dijk asked softly. “And what makes you so sure?”
Mot stepped back—not in fear, but with something almost reverent.
“Because IT told me,” he said. “You’re only playing. If you wanted to leave this cell, this kingdom, nothing here could stop you.”
The chains rattled.
The glyphs flickered.
And then—Van Dijk stood.
Everything holding him—metal, magic, memory—phased through him like mist in wind. The injuries vanished. Skin reknit. Burnt flesh faded. He was whole.
“I played around because I thought it would be a bit of fun, but honestly, now, or seven hundred years ago, the torture methods didn’t improve not one bit,” he said.
“Van Dijk!” the Cardinal shrieked, raising his staff. “Sit down! Return!”
The doors burst open again. The torturers reappeared, eyes wide.
Mot stepped between them and Van Dijk.
“Father,” he said calmly, “do not provoke him.”
“You call this torture?” Van Dijk said, laughing softly. “You’ve grown soft. The Holy Order… it’s lost its teeth.”
His smile vanished.
“But the Price of crossing a Tower Master remains.”
“We can turn the world against you!” the Cardinal barked.
“You already did,” Van Dijk replied.
“You surrendered willingly!”
Van Dijk’s grin returned. “Only because I was in a good mood. If I wasn’t…” He looked at Mot. “Only he would’ve survived.”
The Cardinal turned to Mot, searching for support.
Mot shook his head.
“He says that’s a lie!” the Cardinal said.
“No. What I meant was, even I would’ve died.”
Van Dijk regarded him, and his tone softened.
“I wouldn’t have killed you,” he said gently. “I have a soft spot for children. Even the ones carrying gods.”