His labored breathing echoes throughout the cell. Wrists shackled above his head, he knew that it was almost time. He and his collaborators would have lost the war. Anytime now, The Condesce would come, a cruel, sadistic grin plastered on that pretty face of hers.

The Sufferer shut his eyes tightly, biting his chapped, dry lips enough to draw his own candy red blood from the tender flesh. He could still feel that sharp, dulling pain from that last knife that had pierced through his ribcage, barely grazing his lungs, the wound still raw, and dried red indicating the blood's pathway down his torso. Harsh, red welts decorated his arms and partially bare torso and back. The skin, raised, discolored. Pain meant little to him. If it were for his people, so be it.

He wondered how his fellow mates were faring. The Ψiioniic, condemned to a life as the helmsmen of a ship. The Dolorosa, the woman who had raised him to what he is now. The Disciple…his first and only matesprit, the reason why his vow of celibacy was broken. The Sufferer felt a single hot tear run down his cheek, making a small circular mark on the ground. He never said good-bye, nevertheless would know what her fate would be, come soon…

Footsteps on the cold, stone floor echoed. Click. Click. Click. Behind those, heavier ones, belonging to her Majesties' most loyal guards. Toughest, too.

Little resistance was made, as the demise of the great hero, this man who had sacrificed what he had for all of trollkind. He knew that this day would come. The day that he had both succeeded and failed. It was time.