IV
A month.
That’s how long I had been held in solitary confinement, buried beneath the forest floor in a cell they had constructed for their twisted rituals. It was a place of nightmares, a pit where women were thrown to see if their god would “bless” them. Somehow, I survived. With my mind intact. And my body untouched by the venomous snake they claimed carried the god’s essence. I was the one woman who didn’t break, and for that, I was deemed special. Blessed.
Vir and his cult worshipped Azazel , the god of forbidden knowledge and chaos, along with all the madness that came with him. To them, the world was filthy, infested with undeserving souls that needed to be purged so their god could reign supreme. Their loyalty to this deity required human sacrifices and unswerving devotion. No act was too heinous if it pleased him.
The cell they moved me to after my survival wasn’t much of an improvement. It wasn’t the pitch-black abyss of before, but it was still a dungeon. A dim, miserable place with a few empty cells and mine. The only light came from flickering lamps on the damp walls outside. No one cared if I froze in the biting cold. Their only concerns were feeding me and letting me use the revolting bathroom once a day.
Each morning, Bapo dragged me to the pond for his vile ritual. He’d bathe me like the first time, his hands roaming where they had no right to, his body pressing against mine. The harder I fought, the more he enjoyed it. It was a game to him, to see how much fight he could beat out of me.
Until, finally, I stopped. I stood like a doll, hollow and unresisting. The joy he took from my struggle disappeared, and after a week, he declared himself too busy to bother. For the first time, I was allowed to go to the pond alone. A guard followed me, his presence intrusive but infinitely preferable to Bapo.
This guard—I never learned his name—watched me like the others, his eyes lingering too long, but he never touched me. One day, I noticed him reading a book about Azazel. I asked if I could read it, feigning curiosity. His eagerness to comply was unsettling. He told me I should embrace their god, accept him, and I’d no longer be a prisoner. I’d be honoured as a “blessed one.”
I only nodded, my goal clear. I needed that book. It might hold answers, some way to understand what I was caught up in. Why my flesh was scarred at the base of my spine, why women screamed in the night, why those sacrifices exist or continue. The book became my lifeline, a grotesque manual to the horror around me.
Azazel’s doctrine was a cesspool of evil. He sought to destroy the world and reshape it in his image. His followers, promised power and wealth, were bound to him through human sacrifices. Six women per ritual. “Unsullied” women—untainted by non-believers’ touch—were deemed fit for the offering. That meant the followers raped them to remove the touch of the non-believers and impregnated them.
And worse, those pregnant women were the ultimate sacrifice. Their unborn children’s souls, considered pure and trapped between worlds, were ideal vessels for his will. These sacrifices were carried out in the third month of pregnancy, a time when the soul was thought to be most vulnerable.
I read these passages with mounting nausea. My stomach churned, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to know everything. Every vile detail of this madness. If there was a loophole, a weakness, I had to find it.
The rituals revolved around two figures: the “blessed one” and the “chosen one.” The chosen ones were families handpicked by Azazel, granted forbidden knowledge to secure their wealth and power. To maintain their standing, they had to adhere to the rituals. The role of the blessed one, however, remained shrouded in mystery. All I knew was that I was essential to the sacrifices. Each one required something from me—what, the book didn’t specify. My involvement was the key to starting the ritual.
The women sacrificed were branded each month with a sigil that connected their souls to Azazel. By the third month, after the final sigil, they were offered to him with the help of the blessed one. My role, whatever it was, made me indispensable.
I kept reading, dread pooling in my chest. My survival in solitary confinement had marked me. Trapped with a venomous snake, they believed I had been chosen by their god because I remained unharmed and sane. To them, it was proof of my strength and Azazel’s favour. They didn’t consider the possibility that the snake simply hadn’t felt threatened. Or that my “visions” of the whispers were nothing more than stress-induced delusions.
None of that mattered. Logic had no place here. They had killed countless women in their quest for a blessed one. And they believed I was their god’s instrument. Their faith terrified me. It was unyielding and monstrous. And it left no room for escape.
The deeper I delved into the book, the more unhinged their beliefs revealed themselves to be. Azazel’s will was their reality, and they would do anything to fulfil it. Witnessing their atrocities firsthand had already scarred me. But knowing the depth of their devotion, the extent of their depravity was unravelling what was left of my sanity.
I didn’t know how long I could hold on. I didn’t know how much more I could take. But one thing was clear: I had to get out. I had to survive. Whatever it took.
* * *
I thought I had been given a reprieve for a few weeks, a small mercy amidst the torment, before Bapo resumed his role as my personal torturer. He didn’t mind that I had the book; in fact, he seemed pleased, almost smug, that I appeared to be leaning into their god. But Vir wasn’t a fool like his followers.
Vir knew me.
He knew who I was and likely knew that I harboured suspicions about him being the one responsible for my father’s death. He didn’t trust me. He made no effort to hide it, ordering Bapo to keep me under constant surveillance, unwilling to risk losing their precious “blessed one” after years of fruitless searching.
And how did Bapo “keep me in check”?
Through torture.
Some days, I was hung from the ceiling, my weight bearing down on raw, chafed wrists until my shoulders felt like they would break from their sockets. On other days, he would take me deep into the forest, giving me the illusion of freedom. The hope was intoxicating—a cruel, glimmering light in an otherwise endless abyss. I would run, pouring every ounce of strength into my escape, mentally mapping every twist and turn to avoid going in circles. But I didn’t know the terrain like he did.
He always caught me.
He would spring from the shadows, his predatory grin searing into my soul as he dragged me back to the dungeons. Each capture was a performance, a spectacle to prove I had no chance.
Some days, he tied me to a chair and threw me into the freezing depths of a lake. His laughter echoed in my ears as I thrashed, my bound limbs fighting the suffocating water. My lungs burned, and panic clawed at my chest. He would pull me out just as the darkness began to close in, grinning as I coughed and retched, water spilling from my lips.
“These are tests,” he’d say with mock sincerity, his voice laced with malice. “To keep the god’s energy flowing in you.”
But we both knew the truth.
These were excuses. Justifications for Vir to let Bapo inflict his sadistic will on me. As long as I was alive and coherent, Vir didn’t care.
I was flogged a few times, the whip striking the barely healed wound at the base of my spine, over and over, until my screams were hoarse, and my body trembled. The pain blurred into a haze, but the humiliation cut deeper.
Bapo became the monster in my nightmares. He didn’t just hurt me; he enjoyed it. He lived for my suffering.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
I should have questioned it when I began receiving an extra meal at night. After weeks of being fed once a day, the sight of food silenced my suspicion. Hunger doesn’t allow for questions. I ate greedily, not caring about the strange taste or texture, not caring what kind of meat it was.
Until one day, I woke up feeling woozy, my jaw aching, and a bitter taste lingering in my mouth. My cheeks were tender, scratched, and smeared with dried blood and…something else. Confusion and dread swirled inside me until I saw Bapo's smirk.
That was the day he took another piece of my sanity.
Realisation dawned with a force that left me reeling. He abused my mouth. He used it…for…his pleasure. I screamed, clawing at my face, trying to scrape away the invisible filth. I pulled at my hair and slammed my head against the wall, desperate to purge myself of what he had done.
He laughed.
He laughed as I shattered, as I crumbled into something I barely recognised. His deranged glee echoed in the confines of my mind, louder than my cries.
Bapo turned himself into fear.
He became a visceral part of me, a dark entity lodged deep within my psyche. His presence alone rendered me compliant, my thoughts drowned by sheer terror. Even Vir’s voice now made my blood run cold.
But I had a reason to survive.
I had a sister.
She was relentless in her search for me, hiring private investigators, pressuring the authorities, and questioning Vir—unaware of the monster she was dealing with. Vir prowled into my cell one day, his fury barely contained. He struck me so hard that my head slammed into the wall, leaving me dazed. Then, he stepped on my ankle, the sharp pain snapping me back into focus.
“She’s becoming a problem,” he hissed. “A nuisance. My men are asking questions. And now, she’s got someone tailing me.”
His threats were vivid and visceral. He painted a horrifying picture of what would happen if I defied him or jeopardised his plans.
“I’ll kill her,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. “And after I’m done with you, I’ll bring her here. I’ll have her raped by every one of my men before throwing her into the fire.”
The image he conjured shattered any defiance I had left. His words weren’t just threats—they were promises.
I clung to my sister’s memory, to the promise I made her that I would never abandon her. I clung to the vow I made to my mother to be strong, to survive no matter what.
I had to endure.
For her.
For the promise that someday, I’d get back to her.
* * *
Month two
Another month had passed. Or maybe two. Time had blurred into an endless stretch of darkness, each moment indistinguishable from the next. Torture had become my only constant, a rhythm of pain and fear that dulled even the sharp edge of hope.
I was huddled in the corner of my cell, knees drawn to my chest, trying to melt into the cold, damp stone wall. Maybe if I stayed still enough, small enough, they wouldn’t see me. It was a lie I told myself every day, but it helped me survive.
The heavy squeak of the dungeon door echoed, its familiar groan cutting through the oppressive silence. My heart seized. They were coming.
I curled tighter, pressing my forehead to my knees. But something was different. There were voices—gruff, impatient—followed by the scrape of boots dragging something heavy.
I dared to lift my head.
Two men stepped into the dim light, hauling a woman between them. Her head lolled forward, her hair a matted mess obscuring her face. She wore camouflage pants and a matching shirt; the kind tourists wore when they ventured too far into places they shouldn’t be. A pair of binoculars dangled from her neck, bouncing with each rough pull of her captors until one of them yanked them free and tossed them aside.
Without ceremony, they flung her into the cell next to mine. Her body hit the ground with a dull thud, and for a moment, she didn’t move.
I stared, frozen, as they slammed her cell door shut and left, their laughter fading into the distance.
The woman stirred, a faint groan escaping her lips as she struggled onto her hands and knees. Then, as if realising where she was, she shot upright and stumbled to the bars.
“Hey!” she screamed, her voice raw and panicked. “What the hell is this? Where am I? Let me out!”
She rattled the bars with a force that made my chest tighten. It wouldn’t work. It never did.
I wanted to tell her to stop, but the words stuck in my throat. She was wasting her energy. She would need it later.
Her screams eventually gave way to sobs, her hands gripping the bars as she pressed her forehead against them. “Please… someone…”
I remained silent, unmoving in my corner. She wasn’t the first to cry like that, and she wouldn’t be the last. I should have felt something—pity, sorrow—but I had nothing left to give.
Then, she turned.
Her eyes found me, wide with horror. She took a shaky step back, her gaze scanning me as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “There’s… there’s a kid in here?”
I flinched but didn’t respond.
Her face twisted with something like rage, and she whipped back toward the bars.
“How could you do this? She’s a child, you sick bastards!” Her voice cracked, echoing in the empty space.
No one answered. They never did.
When the silence stretched too long, she turned back to me, crouching by the bars. “Hey,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Are you okay?”
I stared at her, unsure what to do. She seemed kind, but kindness didn’t last here. Kindness was just another weapon they could twist.
“It’s okay,” she continued. “I’m not going to hurt you. My name’s Willow. What’s yours?”
I hesitated. My lips felt dry, my voice unused.
Her face softened and her eyes roved all over me. She took me in, her eyes staying on my wounds for longer seconds. I didn’t know that I had to feel conscious about that, I was too used to them by then. As she took me in, I took her in.
She looked older than I was. Probably in her twenties. She was beautiful, with long blonde hair in curls and pretty features which made her look like a fairy my mother read me tales about.
“Are you hurt?” She asked the obvious.
I didn’t know how to respond to that. It felt… normal, and there was nothing normal about this place.
I gave her a nod that got her to smile at me. Willow shifted, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“Can you tell me what this place is?”
I looked down at my hands, picking at the dirt under my nails.
“It’s a prison,” I said quietly. “A cult.”
Her brows knitted together. “A cult?”
“They think they’re doing God’s work,” I murmured. “But they’re just monsters.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her face pale.
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know.” My voice cracked. “A long time.”
Her fingers tightened around the bars.
“And they… what do they do?”
I swallowed hard, my stomach churning.
“They hurt people. They break them. There’s no escape. They know the forest better than anyone. If you run…” I trailed off, my voice trembling. “I’ve seen what happens when people try.”
I didn’t have to venture outside to know what they do. No one managed to escape, but that didn’t mean they didn’t try. And it did not end pretty for them. The screams still reverberate in my ears, giving me nightmares and not allowing me to get a restful sleep.
Willow’s breath hitched.
“And you… have they…”
She couldn’t even say the word.
I shook my head, giving her a broken smile.
“Not yet. But I think… I think something worse is waiting for me. I just don’t know what it is.”
She stared at me, horror etched into every line of her face. Then she stood and began pacing her cell, muttering under her breath. I caught fragments— ‘She’ll be worried’ and ‘She’s going to be pissed.’
I didn’t ask who she meant. I didn’t care. The sound of the dungeon door swinging open made my heart stop.
“Little one,” Bapo’s voice sang, mockingly sweet.
I scrambled back into my corner, my body shaking.
“No hiding,” he said as he stepped into view. His dark eyes glittered with amusement. “You know I don’t like that game.”
My cell door creaked open, and he was on me before I could move. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking me to my feet.
“Please,” I whimpered, clawing at his hand.
He chuckled, dragging me toward the door. I grabbed the bars with one hand, desperate to hold on, but he kicked it away. My head slammed against the metal, stars exploding in my vision.
“Let her go!” Willow screamed, her voice shrill with panic. “Let the kid go, you bastard!”
Bapo glanced over his shoulder, “A new one? Your turn will come soon, bitch.” He smirked
He dragged me out of the cell, his laughter echoing as the dungeon door slammed shut behind us.
* * *
Bapo thought I was useless. He thought because I was a woman, I wasn’t capable of outsmarting him. If he had even an iota of mind in that monstrous head of his, he would have observed that in all the time he had chased me through the forest, I’d never taken the same route twice. He’d have observed that, slowly but steadily, I was getting a lay of their land.
He’d also observed that I could hold my breath underwater for long. Longer than I pretend that I cannot. He’d have seen that I was putting on a show of paranoia whenever he threw me in the lake or chased me through the forest. I was pretending to be scared while I adjusted my body and mind to the surroundings. Hoping that someday, when I escaped, they would come to use.
By the time I was thrown back into my cell, Willow was crumpled on her floor. I could hear her cries, and when I saw her half-naked form and burned flesh, I understood what had happened. The mark is given after the “unsullying” process happens.
In the time I had taken to yet another hopeless chase into the forest, the monsters had come to take yet another soul. Left it in tatters and crying. I couldn’t let her lose her will. I couldn’t see another woman lose her sanity just to make things easy for those bastards.
“You’ll find a pitcher of water in a corner. Drink some and get ready.” I told her.
She rose and looked at me, her red-rimmed eye shining in despair. I don’t see a lot of hope in them, and for some reason, I made it my job to instil the hope back into them.
Maybe it was because she had so vocally stood up to Bapo while he took me away, or maybe because she was concerned that I was here despite her being stuck here, too. We were in that hell together, and we only had each other to rely on.
“For what?” she asked.
“For hell.”
* * *
Things had fallen into a pattern—one no human could ever truly adapt to. Torture had a way of chipping at you until the sharp edges dulled, but they never disappeared entirely. The pain lingered, constant, like an old wound that wouldn’t heal.
But I was glad for Willow.
We both hated that we were there. No one deserved that hell, but having her kept me from completely losing my mind. The men had claimed her like they claimed every woman, and it didn’t take long before she fell pregnant. It seemed to be a mark of triumph for them. They tested the women regularly, announcing the results like it was some sick victory.
The pregnant ones received different meals. I noticed the food was coated with something that made Willow sleep longer than usual. At least it gave her a few hours of oblivion, though it didn’t erase what they did to her.
They didn’t beat her—not physically. But that didn’t stop them from violating her in every other way imaginable. At first, Willow fought back, kicking, clawing, and spitting. Her fire was relentless, and for a moment, I believed she could burn them. But that place was designed to snuff out fire. Fighting only got her hurt, and she stopped eventually.
We had a pact. If we ever found a sliver of a chance to escape, we had to be physically ready. That meant keeping ourselves alive, eating whatever scraps they gave us, and not wasting strength fighting battles we couldn’t win.
But every time they came for her, I saw it chip away at her soul. And every time Bapo dragged me off for his own twisted purposes, I felt a little more of my own slipping away, too. There were nights I woke up after being drugged, my throat raw from abuse, and I thought about ending it. Just finding a way to stop the endless cycle of pain.
It didn’t mean the hell had become any more bearable—it hadn’t. No one could ever adjust to the scale of depravity that thrived there, all under the guise of serving a higher purpose. But at its core, their actions weren’t about faith; they were about power.
Vir sought to unseat the king, clawing for control. His followers, desperate to elevate themselves from the insignificance they loathed, latched onto his vision like parasites. They wielded their dominance over women as if it were a divine right, reducing us to tools for their ambitions. The ones they deemed ‘unworthy’—those who failed to meet the twisted criteria of their god—became sacrifices, their suffering a grotesque offering.
To them, we weren’t a threat. We weren’t people. We were expendable. And that, perhaps, was their gravest mistake.
It was one of those nights where Willow and I sat facing each other, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the walls. She’d been marked with the second sigil earlier that day, a deep, ugly brand burned into her skin. When she tried to grab the rod and use it as a weapon, they broke her hand.
Someone had patched her up, tying her hand in a makeshift cloth cast and giving her a green concoction that dulled the pain. But it also made her groggy. Her eyelids drooped, her breaths shallow.
We never closed our eyes unless we had no choice. Sleep only came when the food was laced, and we couldn’t afford not to eat. Hunger here was a cruel master, and the lessons for disobedience were unforgettable.
“I have a sister,” Willow murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. “She’s probably losing her shit right now, trying to figure out where I am.”
“Maybe she’s close,” I offered, though I didn’t believe it.
Willow laughed weakly, the sound turning into a hiss of pain as her broken hand shifted. “Don’t lie, kid. You’re laughably easy to read.”
“I don’t think that’s going to work in my favour,” I rested my head on the wall behind me.
“Maybe in a world filled with nothing but goodness, it could be appreciated. But in the world we live in, you have to learn to lie through the teeth, steal without conscience, and survive without guilt.”
I leaned back against the wall, careful not to let the rough stone press too hard against the brand on my back. The wound hadn’t been given time to heal, and Bapo ensured it never would. Whether it was the lake, the whip, or some other form of punishment, he always found a way to keep it raw and bleeding. At least they gave me a salve—a leaf smeared with some kind of ointment—every night to stave off infection.
“I’m starting to think escaping this place isn’t going to be easy,” Willow muttered, her gaze fixed on the ceiling.
I scoffed. “What made you think it ever would be?”
“My training.”
“What training?” I looked at her with curiosity.
Willow looked at me and contemplated for a few seconds before she shrugged to herself and muttered, ‘What the hell.’
“I was trained to be a spy for an assassination group. It's too bad that I was never given real training like my sister.”
I should’ve been shocked, maybe even appalled. But nothing surprised me anymore. My curiosity was fleeting, a shallow ripple against the deep ocean of despair I lived in.
“So, you’re here to spy?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “My sister was about to take on one of the toughest jobs, and I thought I could help. Scope out the land, give her some intel, maybe make her job a little safer.”
I snickered. “What good is a spy if they get caught?”
Willow cracked a smile. “Touché.”
That’s how it was with us—finding dark humour in the midst of hell. She once called one of the guards a limp-dick bastard. He looked ready to kill her, but Bapo had strict orders not to harm the pregnant ones.
“In my defence,” Willow continued, “I was watching for the throne’s guards, not some deranged cult.”
Her words made me laugh, a sound that felt foreign and out of place.
After a moment, I shared something, too. “I have a sister. She’s probably tearing the world apart trying to find me.”
“Why are younger sisters always so feisty?”
Her comment cracked me up, and for a moment, the weight on my chest felt lighter.
“Your sister,” I asked after a while, “she’s trained to be an assassin?”
Willow nodded, pride lighting up her face. “The best there is in the group. She’s in a league of her own.”
“I hope she’s okay.”
Willow’s expression softened. “If she’s not, it’s because she’s using every resource she has to find me.”
“Is it wrong that I hope neither of them comes anywhere near this place?” I muttered, tapping my head lightly against the wall.
“No,” she said firmly. “But knowing her, she won’t stop.”
I nodded. My sister wouldn’t stop either.
“If the roles were reversed,” I said quietly, “we wouldn’t give up on them.”
“Never,” Willow agreed.
We lay down on the cold, hard ground, the chill numbing our wounds.
“I hope she gets here before it’s too late,” Willow whispered.
“Me too,” I said. “For both of us. For all of us.”
“Not for me, kid.” She shakes her head, turning her sharp gaze towards me.
“But if she gets here too late," Willow murmured, her voice a mix of fear and pride, "there won’t be a force in this world that can stop the havoc that mad bitch will unleash."