He had not seen Akira suffer.
He had not heard his screams.
The gates of punishment did not allow such things.
And yet...
For a hundred and forty years, Zaelek had swept the endless golden halls of the castle in silence, unable to do anything except imagine what was happening beyond those walls.
Every glimmer of gold beneath his feet reminded him exactly where Akira was.
Every metallic shine forced his mind to wander toward unbearable thoughts of bones breaking beneath raining coins, of a body collapsing over and over with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
The worst part was not knowing.
Not knowing whether Akira was enduring it well or if... He had already given up.
Not knowing whether, somewhere during those long years, the man had started wishing for death instead.
Zaelek had spent a century and a half drowning in helplessness, gripping the broom so tightly at times that the handle cracked beneath his fingers.
