Grant me Your Grace Chapter 46

A chill of foreboding gripped Dahlia’s chest as she cautiously approached the disturbance. Her breath caught sharply in her throat.  

 

“Rayrion! Rayrion!”  

 

The small creature lay motionless in the grass. Dahlia rushed forward, gathering the limp body in her arms, but the animal had already gone cold.  

 

“Rayrion… please. If you leave me too, what will I do…?”  

 

Her fingers traced the protruding ribs beneath matted fur. While she’d been consumed with worry for Hissin, this little life sustained by her care had slipped away unnoticed.  

 

“No… no! Rayrion, please—!”  

 

Her frantic gaze caught on a sharp stone fragment nearby. Without hesitation, Dahlia slashed her palm and let her blood pour over Rayrion’s body, staining the white fur crimson.  

 

But the lifeless form showed no flicker of response. Even when she clenched her fist to squeeze out more blood, nothing could revive what was already gone. The wound closed almost instantly, the flow stopping as abruptly as it began. Clutching Rayrion’s body, Dahlia wept.  

 

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”  

 

Both Hissin and Rayrion—all the warmth this temple had given her—were now lost.  

 

Had the Goddess punished me? For daring to defy the Blood Price within these sacred walls?

 

Cradling Rayrion, Dahlia knelt before the statue of Nuit, praying fervently.  

 

“Goddess Nuit, I have sinned. Punish me as you will, but please… shelter this innocent life. And Hissin—he’s done no wrong—”  

 

Her tears choked the words in her throat.  

 

Did this cruel night mean to silence her prayers before they reached heaven? No—this was the bar of her own guilt, knowing full well her transgressions.  

 

Nuit had already passed judgment. Her punishment was to witness the suffering of those she held dear.  

 

“I only wanted… ordinary peace like everyone else…”  

 

Another tear traced down Dahlia’s cheek.  

 

Was the sin of wishing freedom from the Blood Price so great? 

 

Worth losing lives? Worth being dragged to such despair?

 

“Then take my life instead. Please… I beg you—!”  

 

The woman who had lost even the chance to beg for divine mercy finally broke into wretched sobs.  

 

✨

 

“Aaaghh!”  

 

A horrific scream echoed through the interrogation chamber. High Priest Aaron stared at his smoldering thigh, breathing raggedly.  

 

His lips, blanched from torture, barely formed words.  

 

“You think… you’ll escape unscathed… for doing this to a priest of the gods…?”  

 

Crown Prince Saltar, standing before him, let out a derisive snort.  

 

“Should’ve thought of that before opposing me.”  

 

He took the branding iron from a soldier. When pressed into the glowing coals, the gray metal began glowing red again.  

 

Saltar’s grin turned vicious as he raised the searing iron.  

 

“Had you simply pledged loyalty to your Crown Prince, we wouldn’t be here.”  

 

“Stop—! Don’t—Aagh!”  

 

The iron came down on Aaron’s shoulder. His scream died into convulsions, eyes rolling back. 

 

The stench of burning flesh made even the soldiers avert their faces.  

 

Saltar withdrew the iron just before Aaron lost consciousness. Gripping the priest’s jaw, he forced their eyes to meet.  

 

“It’s not too late. Declare the temple’s full support for the Crown Prince, and I’ll release you. This ‘Divine Gift’ farce won’t even touch you.”  

 

“Preposterous… I won’t… betray my faith… to save myself…”  

 

Saltar exhaled in frustration at the stubborn refusal.  

 

“So you’d rather die than see me crowned Emperor.”  

 

Tossing the iron aside, he strode to the wall lined with torture devices. His eyes gleamed with madness as he selected one particularly gruesome tool.  

 

“Have it your way, then.”  

 

“Gah—! Nngh—!”  

 

At Saltar’s signal, soldiers gagged Aaron. The Crown Prince’s chilling smile widened as he raised the instrument with both hands.  

 

✨

 

The Emperor’s final decree condemned both Hissin and the High Priest to the underground prison.  

 

Carved deep beneath the desert, Baran’s subterranean dungeons held only the worst offenders: traitors, war criminals, and fallen royalty.  

 

Not a sliver of light reached its depths. Infamous for its brutal tortures, lethal conditions, and indefinite sentences, no one ever left alive.  

 

Aaron’s charge was blasphemy—for knowingly deceiving the faithful about Hissin’s false divinity.  

 

As a token respect for his rank, the High Priest was taken to the dungeons discreetly.  

 

Hissin received no such courtesy.

 

His crime? Being the ‘Offering of the Demon.’  

 

“Damned creature!”  

 

“Filthy abomination! How dare you try to destroy Baran?”  

 

The crowd hurled curses at Hissin as he was led to the underground prison. 

 

Those who once worshiped him as the Divine Gift now pointed fingers and spat, calling him a vile demon’s pawn. 

 

Every step drew fresh waves of hatred, their fury lighting the path to his damnation.  

 

Some threw stones. So many rained down that the escorting soldiers raised shields.  

 

Hissin’s bare torso was already a canvas of wounds—some fresh, but most clearly not from today’s assault.  

 

“…”  

 

Blood streamed hot from his forehead where a rock had struck true. When he lifted his gaze, the crowd recoiled, refusing to meet those ominous crimson eyes.  

 

Then, from the throng, a group of men shouted:  

 

“No wonder something felt off from the start!”  

 

“Tricked us with cheap miracles—just demonic illusions!”  

 

“The proof’s plain—Bunta’s lands turned to desert, the Vial River dried up!”  

 

Their venomous words reignited the mob’s rage. Hissin studied them—the screaming faces, and among them, those who stoked the fury while staying hidden.  

 

Familiar faces. Nobles’ lackeys, no doubt. 

 

Acting on the Crown Prince’s orders—or currying favor by fanning the flames.  

 

‘How quickly they turn.’

  

The same eyes that once begged for his blessings now burned with hatred. A wry smile tugged at his lips.  

 

“Laughing even as he’s dragged to hell! Proof he’s the demon’s spawn!”  

 

More stones flew. A soldier cracked his whip when Hissin didn’t quicken his pace. The lash split his back, forcing a stagger.  

 

‘Strange.’  

 

‘A memory long buried stirs…’

 

Hissin bared bloodied teeth, drinking in their wrath as the prison loomed ahead.  

 

The northern gate’s rusted hinges screeched like damned souls as they opened. Dank moss and rot flooded his senses, wrinkling his nose.  

 

Ten steps in, all light vanished. Only the jailer’s torch pushed back the gloom.  

 

Hissin walked deeper, stepping over his flickering shadow.  

 

Cells lined the cavern—some empty, others holding skeletal figures barely alive. A normal man would recoil, but Hissin passed them with hollow eyes.  

 

At the deepest pit, the final door groaned open.  

 

“Get in!”  

 

The jailer shoved him inside, slamming the lock shut.  

 

“Filthy Offering. You’ll beg for hell before we’re done.”  

 

The torchlight faded, swallowed by absolute dark.  

 

This was the prison’s true horror: no light, no hope—just suffocating blackness and distant screams to shatter sanity.  

 

Men died here two-way, broken by torture, or by their own hands when madness took them.  

 

Yet Hissin stood motionless, staring into the void as if he could see. His hand slid unerringly to the cell bars, fingers tracing the icy metal with eerie precision.  

 

“How unfortunate.”  

 

His whisper clung to the freezing steel.  

 

“Your suffering has only just begun.”  

 

A twist of his wrist. The immovable bars groaned, rotating slowly with a ghostly creak.  

 

“So please, Your Highness… wait just a little longer.”  

 

In the darkness, his smile widened. Crimson eyes glowed like embers in the abyss.