The dungeon air was thick with the scent of damp stone and my own fear-sweat. My magic was spent, my bowstring snapped. I’d fought through hordes to reach the inner sanctum, only to find… him. Cesare.

The Undead Lord lounged on a throne of bone, his form a terrifying mix of polished obsidian skeleton and swirling shadow. His eyes glowed with violet hellfire. “Little mage,” his voice echoed, a rasp of gravel and velvet. “I’ve been waiting for my bride.”

Before I could protest, shadowy tendrils snaked from the walls, coiling around my wrists and ankles, yanking me spread-eagle into the air. “I’m not—!” I choked out.

“You are,” he purred, gliding forward. A cold, skeletal hand traced my jaw. “I’ve tasted your defiance from afar. Your pain will be my symphony.” His other hand, flesh over bone, gripped the front of my tunic and ripped. Cool air hit my chest, my top surgery scars a map of my truth under his gaze. “Beautiful,” he hissed. “A canvas for my art.”

His touch was ice and fire. A tendril, slick with some unnatural oil, slithered up my thigh, pushing my leathers aside to find my cunt. I gasped. It wasn’t an attack. It was an invasion, a thick, probing intrusion that knew exactly where to press. “You crave this, Shiro,” Cesare murmured, his bony fingers pinching and