Rise of The Abandoned Husband

The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor, waking me from my restless sleep. I sat up immediately, my back aching from the hard stone floor. Morning light filtered weakly through the small window high in my cell, casting long shadows across the floor.

"Rise and shine, condemned man," a guard called out mockingly. "Today's your big day."

I remained silent, conserving my energy while watching their movements carefully. Two guards approached Isabelle's cell first, activating a mechanism that made the energy barrier flicker before solidifying into a different pattern.

"Step back from the entrance," one ordered her.

Isabelle complied, her face composed despite the dark circles under her eyes. She hadn't slept much either.

The lead guard turned to me. "You too, Knight. Against the wall."

I backed up slowly, my eyes never leaving them. When my barrier deactivated, four guards entered instead of the usual two. They weren't taking chances today.

"Special treatment," I remarked dryly.

The guard closest to me smirked. "Can't have our star attraction escaping before the show, can we?"

They secured my hands with heavy metal shackles inscribed with suppression runes that immediately sent a cold numbness through my arms. Additional chains were wrapped around my torso, limiting my movement even further.

Across the corridor, they were doing the same to Isabelle, though with less restraints. She winced as they roughly grabbed her arms, but she didn't make a sound.

"Easy with her," I snapped, earning myself a harsh jab in the ribs from a guard's baton.

"Shut up. You don't give orders here."

As they led us from the cells, I caught sight of my fellow prisoners watching intently. Scarface gave me an almost imperceptible nod. Marcus's calculating eyes followed our every move, while Chen's expression remained unreadable.

Instead of taking us upward toward what I assumed would be an execution ground, the guards directed us deeper into the prison. The corridors became narrower, the lighting dimmer. The air grew thick with moisture and the unmistakable stench of suffering.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

The guard behind me shoved me forward. "To meet your host for the morning. Someone's eager to spend quality time before the main event."

We were led into a large, circular chamber with a depression in the center. Along the perimeter, viewing platforms rose in tiers, like a small arena. In the center pit, two metal frames stood ominously, clearly designed to hold prisoners.

My stomach twisted as I realized what this was—an observation room for interrogations and torture.

"Welcome to my favorite room in the entire complex," a familiar voice called out.

Darian Bancroft descended from the upper tier, immaculately dressed in Guild formal attire. His smile was wide and genuinely pleased, like a child on his birthday.

"I apologize for the venue," he continued, gesturing around the chamber. "The execution platform is still being prepared. But I thought we might have a more intimate gathering first."

Guards forced us down into the central pit and secured us to the metal frames. They positioned us facing each other, ensuring I had a clear view of Isabelle.

"There," Bancroft said, stepping between us. "Perfect. Now you can see each other's reactions."

Isabelle met my eyes, her gaze steady despite her obvious fear. She gave me a small nod—a silent message of strength.

Bancroft circled us slowly, examining the restraints. "Authentic Rock," he commented, tapping the material. "Fascinating substance. Even stronger than Black Gold Stone. Did you know this entire prison is lined with it? Makes escape completely impossible, even for Martial Saints."

He paused, clearly enjoying his little lecture. "We've had some impressive inmates over the centuries. Martial Saints from a hundred years ago are still imprisoned in the lower levels. That's how deep the Guild's power runs—we hold gods themselves captive."

I kept my expression neutral, but inwardly I processed this information carefully. Martial Saints still alive after a century of imprisonment? The Guild's resources were even more extensive than I'd imagined.

"You know," Bancroft continued conversationally, "I received the official documents for your execution last night. Signed and sealed by all thirteen members of the High Council. Quite unprecedented, really. Usually they delegate such matters."

He produced an ornate scroll from his robes and unrolled it with theatrical flourish. "But your case warranted special attention. They'll all be attending at noon today."

"I'm honored," I replied dryly.

Bancroft's eyes gleamed with amusement. "You should be. I also took the liberty of extending invitations to interested parties. The Ashworth family was particularly eager to attend. And the Blackthornes, of course, after your little display with young Dashiell yesterday."

Isabelle tensed at the mention of her family. I could see the pain in her eyes—not physical, but the deeper wound of betrayal.

"Don't worry, my dear," Bancroft said, noticing her reaction. "Your grandfather sends his regards. He's very much looking forward to reclaiming your body afterward. For a proper burial, he assured me."

"You're enjoying this too much," I observed coldly.

Bancroft didn't deny it. "Of course I am. It's not often I get to oversee the downfall of someone who's caused me such professional embarrassment. Your little escapades have been quite costly for my department."

He walked over to a side table and lifted a cloth, revealing several metallic instruments beneath. "But before the main event, I thought we might have a small appetizer."

My muscles tensed against the restraints as he selected a device that resembled a small metallic cylinder with needles protruding from one end.

"This is an extractor," he explained, holding it up for inspection. "Designed specifically for blood harvesting from special subjects."

He walked deliberately toward Isabelle.

"Don't touch her," I warned, my voice dropping dangerously low.

Bancroft merely smiled. "Or what? You'll glare me to death?"

Two assistants in white coats entered the chamber, carrying additional equipment. They began setting up beside Isabelle, preparing vials and monitoring instruments.

"Miss Ashworth's blood is quite valuable," Bancroft explained, as if conducting a normal scientific demonstration. "The rarest bloodline we've encountered in generations. Today's extraction will be our last chance to collect samples before execution."

He signaled to the assistants, who rolled up Isabelle's sleeve and swabbed her arm with a clear solution. I strained against my restraints, feeling the metal dig into my wrists.

"Stop this," I demanded. "Take my blood instead."

Bancroft laughed. "Your blood? It's worthless compared to hers. She carries the legacy of the Seraphs in her veins. You're just an orphan with delusions of grandeur."

The first assistant positioned the extractor against Isabelle's arm. When he activated it, the needles plunged into her skin. Isabelle's body went rigid, her jaw clenching as she fought not to scream.

I could see the device pulsing as it drew blood—not a simple extraction, but something that seemed to be causing intense pain. Blood flowed through transparent tubes into waiting vials, glowing faintly with an unnatural light.

"Fascinating," Bancroft murmured, watching the process with clinical interest. "Even now, her blood resists the extraction. Most subjects pass out from the pain, but she remains conscious."

Isabelle's face had gone deathly pale, her breathing shallow and rapid. But true to Bancroft's observation, she didn't make a sound. Her eyes were fixed on mine, using our connection as an anchor against the pain.

"Stop it!" I shouted, rage building inside me. "You've got your samples!"

Bancroft tilted his head, studying my reaction with interest. "But we haven't reached the optimal quantity yet. And besides, your distress is quite entertaining."

He moved closer to me, lowering his voice. "I want you to watch her suffer, Knight. I want this image burned into your mind for the few remaining hours of your life. This is what happens to those who defy the Guild."

The extraction continued for what felt like an eternity. With each passing minute, Isabelle grew weaker, her skin taking on a grayish tinge. Still, she didn't cry out. Her silent endurance only seemed to frustrate Bancroft, who eventually ordered the assistants to increase the extraction rate.

"Curious," he said. "Most people would be begging by now. Her tolerance for pain is remarkable."

"She's stronger than you'll ever understand," I replied, my voice tight with controlled fury.

Something dark flashed in Bancroft's eyes. "Is that so? Then let's test her limits, shall we?"

He adjusted a dial on the extraction device himself, pushing it beyond the settings the assistants had used. Immediately, Isabelle's body convulsed, her back arching involuntarily against the restraints.

It was too much. A small, pained gasp escaped her lips.

The sound ignited something primal within me. Rage—pure, undiluted rage—flooded my system, drowning out reason and caution. I felt heat building inside my chest, spreading outward through my limbs.

"I warned you," I growled, my voice barely recognizable even to myself.

Bancroft turned to me with a smirk. "Did you? And what exactly did you warn me about?"

I looked directly into his eyes. "When I get free—and I will get free—I'm going to kill you slowly. I'm going to take everything you care about and destroy it while you watch. And then, when you're broken and begging for mercy, I'll deny you the relief of death for as long as possible."

The calm certainty in my voice wiped the smile from his face. For a brief moment, I saw a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes before he masked it with disdain.

"Bold threats from a man hours away from execution," he said, but his voice lacked its earlier confidence.

He waved to the assistants. "Increase the extraction rate again. Let's see if we can get a proper scream from her this time."

The assistants exchanged uncertain glances but complied. As they adjusted the settings, Isabelle's body tensed further. A strangled sound escaped her throat as tears finally spilled down her cheeks.

Something snapped inside me. The rage that had been building condensed into a single point of pure, focused fury.

Without conscious thought, my hand shot out and struck the Authentic Rock railing of the observation pit. The impact sent shock waves up my arm, but instead of breaking my hand, something impossible happened.

The railing bent.

Authentic Rock—the supposedly unbreakable material that could contain Martial Saints—visibly deformed under the force of my blow.

A stunned silence fell over the chamber. Bancroft stared at the bent railing, his face draining of color. The assistants froze in their tasks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Even Isabelle, through her pain, looked shocked.

"That's..." Bancroft started, his voice faltering. "That's not possible."

I met his gaze steadily, a dangerous smile spreading across my face. The fear in his eyes was no longer a flicker—it was a blazing fire.