The cold marble floor bit into Maryna's bare feet as she was led down the endless corridor.
Two silent guards flanked her, their faces blank masks. She didn't ask where they were taking her—she knew better by now. Questions weren't answered here. They were punished.
The doors they stopped before were massive, carved with symbols she didn't recognize. One guard reached forward and pushed the door open with a low groan of ancient wood.
Maryna blinked as she stepped inside.
The room was cavernous—stone walls, high ceilings, and mirrors everywhere.
The only furniture was a single, worn leather chair placed in the center, and standing beside it—
Vasilios.
He was dressed in black again, his dark hair tousled, his crimson eyes gleaming under the flickering torchlight. He looked almost lazy, one hand resting casually on the back of the chair. But Maryna knew better.
Every inch of him was coiled violence and hunger.
"You will learn today," Vasilios said, his voice a slow drawl that made her skin prickle.
Maryna lifted her chin. "Learn what? How to be your obedient little pet?"
A flicker of amusement crossed his face. He pushed away from the chair and prowled toward her, slow and deliberate. The way a wolf might approach a wounded deer.
"No, Mariposa," he murmured. "You will learn how to survive."
Before she could react, his hand shot out—not rough, not cruel—but firm. He seized her chin, forcing her to look into the nearest mirror.
Maryna gasped.
She barely recognized herself.
A thin, scared girl stared back—barefoot, wild-eyed, trembling beneath the weight of her own rage and fear.
"You see that?" Vasilios whispered against her ear. "That look? That scent of desperation? They will devour you for it."
He released her abruptly, stepping back.
"Again," he barked. "Hold yourself like you are untouchable."
Maryna stood frozen.
A sharp crack split the air—Vasilios had slammed his palm against the stone wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
"Again!"
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Every instinct screamed to run, to fight, to scream.
But somewhere deeper—somewhere colder—another instinct stirred.
Survive.
Maryna straightened her shoulders. Lifted her chin.
Forced her hands to unclench.
Made herself look into the mirror and pretend she wasn't afraid.
For a moment, the girl in the mirror almost looked real.
Vasilios circled her, studying her like a sculpture half-formed. His silence stretched, sharp and heavy.
"Better," he said at last, though there was no softness in it. Only calculation.
He moved closer again, so close she could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of her dress.
His fingers ghosted along her collarbone—not a touch, barely a breath of contact—and still it seared through her.
"You will become something they fear to touch," he said, voice a low threat and a promise.
Maryna met his gaze in the mirror, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear.
And for the first time since she'd woken in this nightmare, she felt something dangerous spark inside her.
Not fear.
Not hatred.
A hunger to win.