The silence that followed Magnus's departure was more profound and terrifying than any sound. It was the silence of a vacuum, the stillness of a tomb. Kaelen lay on the floor, the world a blurry, meaningless haze of pain and tears, the sharp, cracking sound of the slap still echoing in her ears. A few feet away, Lilith began to stir, a low groan of pure agony escaping her lips as she tried to push herself up, only to collapse back onto the cold, unforgiving marble.
They were not alone for long. The two black-suited guards re-entered the room, their movements devoid of any emotion, their faces impassive masks. They moved with the efficient, detached air of zookeepers handling dangerous, wounded animals. One of them hauled Lilith to her feet, her arms pinned behind her back. The other approached Kaelen, his movements almost gentle as he lifted her, a cruel parody of care that was somehow more violating than overt brutality. He placed her back in her wheelchair, her shattered leg a screaming, white-hot inferno of protesting nerves.
They did not take them to bedrooms. They did not take them to a dungeon. They left them right there, in the heart of the manor: the library. It was a calculated act of psychological warfare. This room, their mother's favorite place, a sanctuary of knowledge and quiet peace, was to be their cage. The guards produced thick, coarse ropes, and with a cold, impersonal efficiency, they tied Lilith to a heavy, ornate armchair. Her hands were bound behind the chair's back, her ankles lashed to its legs. She was positioned to face Kaelen.
Kaelen, in turn, was bound to her wheelchair. Ropes were looped through the frame and around her wrists, her torso, her ankles, pinning her to the cold metal and leather. She was a broken statue, a prisoner in her own broken body. A guard placed a single, tall glass of tepid water and a single, hard crust of bread on a small, polished mahogany table between them, just out of reach, a constant, mocking reminder of their powerlessness and his absolute control.
And then they were left alone, two wounded animals in a vast, silent cage filled with the ghosts of a happier time.
Day One: The Lesson of Disappointment
The first twenty-four hours were a blur of pain, shock, and a creeping, insidious despair. The physical agony was a constant, roaring fire, but it was the humiliation that truly began to break them down. In the morning, the guards returned. They did not speak. They untied them, one at a time, and escorted them to a small, adjoining washroom, waiting just outside the door, a silent, menacing presence. Then, they were tied back up, the coarse ropes a fresh, chafing reminder of their captivity.
That evening, Magnus returned. He did not bring food. He brought a lesson. He pulled up a heavy, leather-bound chair and sat directly in front of them, an audience of one for their private suffering.
"I have been reflecting," he began, his voice a low, calm, conversational tone that was more terrifying than any shout, "on the nature of disappointment. A father expects his children to be reflections of his own strength, to carry his legacy forward, to be better, sharper, more ruthless versions of himself. It is a simple, biological imperative."
He looked at Lilith, his eyes full of a cold, analytical sorrow. "You, Lilith. You were my strategist. Sharp, intelligent, with a mind for the kill. I sent you out into the world to conquer, and what did you do? You allowed yourself to be colonized. By an Ironwood. Our most hated, most bitter rival. You let her, an Alpha, make you soft. You let this… this perverse affection for a competitor override your duty to your own blood. You did not just choose a partner. You chose a side. And you chose wrong. You are a profound, deep, and utterly personal disappointment."
To punctuate his words, a guard stepped forward and delivered a single, brutal, open-handed slap to Lilith's face, the sound a sharp, ugly crack in the silent room. Lilith's head snapped to the side, but she did not cry out. She just stared back at him, her eyes blazing with a pure, unadulterated hatred.
Magnus then turned his terrible, dissecting gaze to Kaelen. "And you. My little project. My greatest reclamation. I took the weakest, most sentimental part of your mother, the part that got her killed, and I hammered it out of you. I forged you into a weapon of pure, unadulterated will. I gave you power, I gave you purpose. And the moment you were out from under my sight, you reverted. You collapsed back into this… this pathetic, feeling thing."
He gestured to her wheelchair, to her broken body. "This," he said with a voice full of disgust, "this is not the mark of a hero. This is the mark of a fool. A sentimental fool who threw herself into a fire for the daughter of our enemy. You have not just disappointed me, Kaelen. You have disgraced your own survival. You have disgraced the very memory of the woman who died to give it to you."
Another guard stepped forward and delivered a similar slap to Kaelen's bruised cheek. The pain was a sharp, shocking starburst, but it was the shame, the raw, brutal humiliation, that made her choke back a sob. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the cold, triumphant look on her father's face.
Day Two: The Lesson of Legacy
Their bodies ached with a deep, grinding pain. The ropes had chafed their wrists raw. A gnawing, desperate hunger had set in, a hollow ache in their bellies that was a constant, dull counterpoint to the sharp, specific pains of their injuries. The single piece of bread and glass of water from the previous day had been a taunt, a drop of sustenance that only served to sharpen the edge of their starvation. They had spoken little, the energy required for conversation a precious commodity they could not afford to spend. But in the long, dark hours of the night, a silent communication had passed between them. A shared look of defiance. A small, almost imperceptible nod of solidarity. They were prisoners, but they were prisoners together.
Magnus's lesson for the second day was on legacy. He stood before the vast, unlit fireplace, a dark silhouette against the grey light of the windows.
"Your mother understood legacy," he began, his voice a low, mournful rumble. "She understood that our name, the Blackwood name, was not just a word. It was a fortress. It was a dynasty. Every move she made, every alliance she forged, every child she bore, was in service of strengthening the walls of that fortress. She died in service to it, protecting its most vulnerable asset—you," he said, his gaze flicking to Kaelen. "And how have you, her daughters, honored that sacrifice?"
He began to pace, his movements slow, deliberate, the movements of a predator in its den. "You, Lilith, you take our name and you lay it at the feet of an Ironwood. You allow the press to call you a 'power couple,' as if our two houses are equals. You dilute our brand. You cheapen our blood. You take the fortress your mother died to protect and you hand our enemies the keys to the front gate."
This time, he didn't have the guards do it. He moved himself, his hand shooting out to grip Lilith's hair, yanking her head back. "Do you understand?" he hissed, his face just inches from hers. "Every moment you spend with her, you are desecrating your mother's tomb." He released her with a shove, her head lolling to the side.
He then turned to Kaelen. "And you. You take our name and you bind it to the Vespers. The very family whose incompetence led to your mother's death. You were supposed to conquer them. To absorb them. To make them pay their debt. That was your purpose. And instead, you play house. You play mother to their spawn. You let your heart, that weak, treacherous muscle I tried so hard to cut out of you, get entangled with the very people you were meant to destroy."
He walked over to her wheelchair, and with a cold, deliberate motion, he kicked one of the wheels, sending the chair spinning, a fresh, jarring wave of pain shooting up Kaelen's leg. "You are not just failing your legacy," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You are actively dismantling it. You are taking a hammer to the walls of the fortress. And for that, your mother would be ashamed."
The word 'ashamed' was a knife, twisting in Kaelen's gut. The fragile hope Sera had planted, the idea that she had her mother's heart, withered under the cold, brutal poison of his words.
Day Three & Four: The Lessons of Power and Obedience
The days blurred into a monotonous, grey haze of pain, hunger, and despair. Each morning, a guard would enter, replace the empty glass with a full one and the eaten crust with a new, identical piece of dry bread, his face a blank slate. It was a ritual of subjugation, a daily reminder that their most basic needs were met only at their father's whim. The beatings continued, a systematic, brutal reinforcement of his lessons. The guards were no longer just slapping them; they were using their fists, their blows targeted to inflict maximum pain without causing unconsciousness. Lilith's face was a swollen, purple mess. Kaelen's body was a symphony of agony, every movement, every breath, a fresh, searing torment.
On the third day, the lesson was on power. He spoke of the Ironwoods and the Vespers as enemies, as pawns to be crushed, not partners to be embraced. He detailed, with a cold, clinical precision, the ways in which their "sentimental attachments" were liabilities, weaknesses that their enemies would exploit without mercy. With every point, a guard would deliver a blow, a physical punctuation mark to his lecture on ruthlessness.
On the fourth day, the lesson was on obedience. He didn't speak much. He just sat, for hours, watching them in their misery. The silence was more terrifying than the beatings. It was the silence of a god, watching his flawed creations suffer, waiting for them to break. By the end of the fourth day, they were barely conscious, their bodies a landscape of bruises and raw, chafed skin, their minds a numb, buzzing void. The single piece of bread felt like dust in their mouths, the water a mockery of thirst.
In the brief, stolen moments of the night, when the pain was a dull, throbbing ache and the house was silent, they found a small, fragile solace in each other.
"Lilith?" Kaelen had whispered into the darkness of the third night, her voice a raw, broken thing.
"I'm here," Lilith's reply was a pained, breathless sound.
"I'm sorry," Kaelen had sobbed, the tears a hot, silent stream down her bruised cheeks. "This is my fault. All of it."
"No," Lilith had said, her voice surprisingly fierce, a spark of the old, defiant fire still burning in the embers of her spirit. "It's not. It's his. It has always been his."
Day Five: The Final Lesson
On the fifth day, Magnus dismissed the guards. He entered the library alone, a bottle of expensive whiskey and a single glass in his hand. The air in the room changed instantly. The impersonal, systematic brutality of the past four days was gone, replaced by something far more terrifying: his personal, undivided attention.
"I had hoped," he began, pouring himself a drink, the sound of the liquid splashing into the glass unnaturally loud in the silent room, "that you would have learned your lesson by now. That you would be ready to repent. But I can see it in your eyes. The defiance. The stubborn, sentimental weakness you both inherited from your mother."
He walked to Lilith, his movements slow, almost languid. He knelt before her, a cruel parody of a suitor. "You love her, don't you?" he asked, his voice a low, intimate whisper. "The Ironwood girl. You actually love her."
Lilith just stared at him, her one good eye blazing with a hatred so pure it was almost a physical force.
"Love is a cancer, Lilith," he said, his voice full of a sick, twisted pity. "It makes you weak. It makes you stupid. I loved your mother. I loved her with a ferocity that could have burned down the world. And look where it got me. It left me with… this. With disappointing, disobedient daughters who think they know better."
He stood, and with a sudden, violent motion, he delivered a brutal backhand to her face, the force of it snapping her head back against the chair. "You will end it," he hissed. "You will cut this cancer out of your life, or I will do it for you."
He then turned to Kaelen, his eyes a flat, dead grey. He walked to her wheelchair, and with a cold, deliberate cruelty, he kicked the ottoman that was propping up her injured leg, sending it crashing to the floor. The leg fell, and the impact sent a shriek of pure, unadulterated agony tearing from Kaelen's throat.
"And you," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl as he knelt before her, his face just inches from hers. "You think you're in love with the Vesper Omega. You think this… this quiet, domestic life is your future. You are a weapon, Kaelen. A weapon does not get a happy ending. A weapon does not get to love. It has only one purpose: to serve its master."
He raised his hand, and Kaelen flinched, a pathetic, full-body recoil. But he didn't strike her. Instead, he simply rested his cold, heavy hand on the top of her head. "I am going to break you of this," he whispered, the words a chilling, intimate vow. "I am going to burn this weakness out of you, until all that is left is the perfect, obedient weapon I created. I am going to save you from yourself."
He stood, finished his drink in one, smooth motion, and left them in the ruins of their pain. That evening, the guard brought their daily ration. As he placed the glass of water and the crust of bread on the table, he paused, looking at their broken forms. For a fleeting moment, something like pity flickered in his eyes before it was extinguished, and he left without a word. The small gesture of humanity, instantly withdrawn, was somehow more devastating than the constant cruelty.
Day Six: The Intervention
They did not see him again for the rest of that day, or in the long, dark hours of the night that followed. They were left to marinate in their pain, their bodies a symphony of agony, their minds a numb, desolate wasteland. The single piece of bread was gone, the water glass empty, their hunger a sharp, twisting serpent in their guts. By the morning of the sixth day, they were broken. Hope was a forgotten language from a foreign country.
The sound of the library doors opening was a jarring intrusion. They both flinched, expecting the return of their tormentor or the silent guard with his meager offering. But it wasn't Magnus.
It was Cassian.
He stood in the doorway, his large, powerful frame a stark silhouette against the light of the hallway. He was dressed in a sharp, corporate suit, a datapad in his hand, clearly having just arrived for a business meeting. His eyes scanned the room, and then he saw them.
The change was instantaneous and total. The bored, arrogant expression on his face dissolved, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated horror. His face went pale, his jaw going slack. The datapad fell from his numb fingers, clattering loudly on the marble floor.
"Lilith?" he breathed, his voice a strangled whisper. "Kaelen?"
He took a step into the room, then another, his eyes wide with a dawning, horrified comprehension as he took in the full extent of their injuries. The ropes, the bruises, the swollen, broken state of his sisters, the pathetic, empty glass and the crumbs on the table that spoke of a starvation diet.
"Father," his voice was a raw, choked sound. He turned, just as Magnus entered the room from a side door, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.
"Cassian," Magnus said, his voice calm, as if this were the most normal scene in the world. "You're early."
"What is this?" Cassian demanded, his voice trembling with a rage and a horror he had never before dared to show his father. "What have you done to them?"
"I am teaching your sisters a lesson in loyalty," Magnus replied, his voice cold, dismissive. "A lesson you would do well to observe."
"A lesson?" Cassian's voice rose, a raw, incredulous roar. "Look at them! They're your daughters, not your prisoners! This is insane! Father, stop. This is enough!"
"Enough?" Magnus's eyes narrowed, a flicker of dangerous, cold fury in their depths. "It is enough when I say it is enough. They are weak. They are defiant. They need to be corrected. This does not concern you."
"It does concern me!" Cassian shot back, taking a protective step towards his sisters, shielding them with his own body. "They are my sisters! This is not correction! This is torture!" He looked at his father, his face a mask of pleading, desperate agony. He played his final, most powerful card. "Mother… Mother wouldn't want this."
The name hung in the air, a sacred, forbidden word. The effect on Magnus was instantaneous and total. The cold, controlled mask of the tyrant shattered, and for a split second, all that was left was the raw, wounded rage of a grieving mate.
"Do not," he hissed, his voice a low, venomous whisper, "bring your mother into this."
He moved with a speed that was terrifying in a man his size. His hand shot out, and the sharp, cracking sound of his slap against Cassian's face was a gunshot in the silent room. Cassian staggered back, a look of pure, stunned shock on his face, a red handprint already blooming on his cheek.
"Your mother is dead," Magnus said, his voice a cold, flat, and utterly brutal declaration. "Her sentimental weakness is what put her in the ground. And I will not allow it to poison this family any further. I am all you have. I am all that matters. And you will obey me."
He turned, his composure perfectly restored, and looked at his three children—two broken on the floor, one stunned into a shocked silence. He had reasserted his absolute, unquestionable dominion.
"Untie them," he said to the guards who had materialized in the doorway. "The lesson is over. For now."
And then he was gone. Cassian stood for a long, silent moment, his hand on his own smarting cheek, his eyes fixed on the empty doorway where his father had disappeared. The illusion of his father as a strong, just patriarch had been irrevocably, brutally shattered.
He finally turned, his gaze falling on his sisters. The guards were gone, the ropes lay in discarded piles, but they hadn't moved. They were just two broken, huddled shapes in a vast, cold library. He took a hesitant step towards them, his own pain forgotten, his heart breaking with a guilt and a horror so profound he felt like he was choking on it. He had been a silent, complicit partner in their suffering for years. And he had only just now, finally, opened his eyes.