This Is Not Good For Mental Health
The very same day Kael and his beastfolk tribe were captured, they were brought to Count Juliq’s manor and taken straight into the basement.
There was no ceremony. No hesitation.
Some were chained together in groups, wrists and ankles bound so tightly that even shifting their weight pulled at someone else’s restraints. Others were locked behind iron bars, left free only in the most meaningless sense.
Kael alone had been separated.
He hung by his chains in the center of his cell, arms raised and spread, his feet barely touching the ground. The position made rest impossible and pain unavoidable.
No one had been spared imprisonment.
Count Juliq had prepared the basement in advance.
He had cleared space.
Made room as if he had known exactly how many lives he intended to store here.
Fear drifted through the underground chamber like mist.
It clung to the damp stone walls, seeped into the rusted iron bars, and lingered in the air alongside the smell of mold, wet hay, sweat, and old blood. Some captives huddled together where they could—children pressed against mothers, elders supported by trembling hands.
Some were not chained.
But that mercy meant nothing. They were still trapped.
Still listening for footsteps. And those footsteps came soon enough.
A heavy man descended a hidden stairway beyond a false wall, the sound of his polished shoes jarringly clean in such a place. Behind him followed Zrek, captain of the Count’s guard.
Count Juliq walked slowly through the basement hall, dragging a whip lazily along the floor and against the iron bars as he passed. The leather hissed and snapped with every careless movement.
He was inspecting them.
Not as people. As possessions. Toys to please and ease his boredom.
“Hm…” he murmured. “Nice.”
The word alone sent a chill through the captives.
The expression on his face made it worse.
His lips parted slightly. His eyes were half‑lidded. He looked less like a noble and more like a glutton surveying a table filled with indulgence.
And the fear he inspired only seemed to excite him further.
When he licked his lips, Zrek leaned closer and nodded subtly toward Kael’s cell.
Juliq’s expression changed instantly.
The lazy satisfaction vanished.
What replaced it was sharp. Ugly.
Personal.
“So this is him?” the Count said, stopping in front of the cell.
Kael lifted his head, rain‑damp hair clinging to his face, bruises darkening his skin.
He met the Count’s gaze. Silent and unyielding.
“…Mhmm.” Juliq rubbed his chin. “He doesn’t look special to me.”
He gestured without looking away.
“Open the cell.”
Zrek obeyed.
The door creaked open, and Count Juliq stepped inside, his boots crunching over straw and grit until he stood directly in front of Kael.
“So,” he said, “you’re the one who gave my knights trouble.”
Kael said nothing. He only stared.
The silence stretched, and Count Juliq’s face twisted.
“Don’t ignore me when I’m speaking to you!”
The whip cracked through the air.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Leather struck flesh, the sound sharp and unforgiving.
When Juliq finally stepped back, his breathing was uneven. Sweat dotted his brow from the effort.
Kael’s face was bruised. Blood darkened the corner of his mouth, but the damage was far less than the Count had wanted.
Kael spat blood onto the floor and lifted his gaze again.
Then he smiled. Softly.
“If you’re already this tired from beating me,” he said, “this is going to be a breeze.”
Rage twisted Juliq’s face.
He bared his teeth and lashed out once more, pouring his pride into the blow.
Then he turned sharply toward Zrek.
“Your request is denied.”
And when he looked back at Kael, his expression had shifted into something worse than anger.
It was delight.
“I’m keeping this one,” he said. “He’ll be my personal plaything.”
"...I understand, my lord."
Then Count Juliq stepped closer.
“Hold his head.”
Zrek moved immediately, gripping Kael firmly and forcing him still.
Juliq bit his own thumb, drew blood, and pressed it against the collar around Kael’s neck.
The iron flared.
“Activate master lock,” he said calmly.
Then he spoke his name.
“Juliq Herlon.”
The collar glowed.
Symbols etched themselves across its surface—marks of command, ownership, and law twisted into cruelty.
And beneath it all was the horror of forced obedience.
When Zrek released him, Kael’s expression changed.
The defiance remained. But the confidence was gone.
He understood.
With the master lock in place, Juliq could command him to act against his will. Against his values. Against anyone, including his own people.
“You will regret the day you laughed at me,” Juliq said quietly.
Then he turned and left the cell.
The air felt fouler after he was gone.
Kael hung there in silence—not from surrender, but from dread. From the sick certainty that what came next would be worse than pain.
He was calculating every possible outcome.
Zrek lingered outside the bars for a moment, watching him with an unreadable expression.
Then he followed the Count.
“What do we do with the others, my lord?” Zrek asked. “There are too many.”
Juliq hesitated only briefly.
“…Sell them,” he said. “Speak with Bradsby about the particulars.”
The next morning came quietly.
Kael was still chained in place when Count Juliq descended into the basement again. The sound of approaching footsteps stirred him from the shallow half‑sleep he had fallen into.
He opened his eyes slowly.
“Good morning,” Count Juliq said casually.
This time, he was alone.
In his hands and at his side were various tools—chains, hooks, blades, and devices designed not for killing, but for endurance.
“For today,” the Count continued, almost cheerfully, “let’s start properly.”
He reached toward the wall and selected one item.
A chain fitted with dull metal spikes.
He rolled it once in his palm, then stepped closer.
Kael did not move.
The first strike came without warning.
Metal tore against fur and skin.
The pain was sharp—then burning—as the spikes caught and dragged. Count Juliq did not hesitate. He struck again, and again, each blow measured, focused, and deliberate.
Today, the Count had prepared.
Last night’s exertion had not exhausted him. If anything, it had sharpened him.
Kael endured. He did not scream. He did not beg.
Only a grunt escaped him when a strike landed harder than the last, or when the spikes lodged in his fur and flesh, forcing the Count to pull them free with a cruel twist.
Blood darkened the ground beneath him.
Time stretched.
Strike.
Pause.
Strike again.
Even Count Juliq could not escape fatigue forever.
After a long while, his breathing grew heavier. His arm trembled faintly as he stepped back.
Kael, swaying slightly, rolled his tongue once against his teeth and spat blood aside. He lifted his gaze and looked at the Count with a quiet, burning intent.
The kind that promised memory.
“You’re boring,” Count Juliq snapped. “Scream!”
He struck Kael’s face once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
“Scream for me!” he shouted.
Kael did not.
Blood ran beneath his fur, exposing torn flesh where the weapon had done exactly what it was designed to do.
“Tch.” The Count clicked his tongue sharply.
He hooked the chain onto a wall spike and stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow.
“This is no fun,” he muttered.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly.
“…Maybe I should let you starve for a while.”
Without another word, he turned and moved toward the exit.
Kael remained silent, blood dripping, breathing steady.
He would not give the Count satisfaction. And now that the rest of his tribe had been sold away, Juliq had only him left.
Just as the Count reached the door, new sounds entered the basement.
Chains dragged roughly. And a woman’s groan.
“My lord,” Zrek said in a calm voice.
“…Hmm?”
Count Juliq paused, then glanced aside.
Two soldiers emerged from the stairway, pulling a bound beastwoman between them.
She had cat ears.
Beautiful features.
A face pale with pain and exhaustion.
The Count’s demeanor changed instantly.
“Oh?” he exclaimed, stepping closer. “What is this?”
“This is one of the women who escaped during the operation,” Zrek reported evenly. “My apologies. I only managed to recapture one.”
Zrek continued speaking, but the Count barely listened.
His attention was locked on her.
“…The other woman escaped with the child,” Zrek added.
“Yes, yes,” Count Juliq waved him off impatiently.
Kael strained his senses, listening.
*A woman…?*
*It must be Mariada.*
He thanked the heavens; Brescia had escaped with Paxilous.
For the briefest moment, a smile crossed Kael’s bruised lips.
Then it faded.
*Thank you, Mariada* — he thought — *for saving her from this hell.*
Count Juliq leaned closer to the beastwoman, her breath unsteady from the cold.
Her body shivered uncontrollably, eyes half‑lidded from pain and exhaustion. Rainwater still clung to her fur, mud streaking her clothes and skin. She was filthy—too filthy for his hands.
So he didn’t touch her.
Instead, he pressed the toe of his boot beneath her chin and tilted her face upward.
He smiled.
“Zrek!” he called sharply.
Zrek turned at once, arms drawn neatly toward his chest in a posture of respect.
“I like this one,” Count Juliq said with satisfaction. “You did well.”
“You honor me with your praise, my lord,” Zrek replied, bowing slightly.
“She looks close to death,” the Count mused. “That would be inconvenient.”
“Shall I have her treated?” Zrek asked.
“Yes,” Juliq said dismissively.
Then, without warning, he grabbed the chain at her collar and yanked her forward.
For someone concerned about her survival, he was remarkably rough.
“Let me go…” the beastwoman groaned weakly, barely resisting.
Juliq pulled harder.
“Be a good girl,” he said, “and stop talking.”
Kael stiffened.
*That voice—
That wasn’t Mariada’s.*
Something colder than pain ran through him.
Count Juliq dragged her forward until they came into clear view of Kael’s cell. And that was when Kael saw her.
His eyes widened. His breath caught.
“Brescia…?” he whispered.
Neither she nor the Count heard him.
Juliq stopped where he pleased—at the cell directly across from Kael’s.
He shoved Brescia inside.
There were no chains.
No restraints beyond the collar itself.
He pressed his bloodied thumb against the metal at her neck, repeating the same ritual he had used on Kael.
The collar reacted.
The master lock activated.
Then he slammed the cell door shut.
“BRESCIA!!” Kael screamed.
Count Juliq turned slowly.
He saw it.
The expression he had waited for.
The raw despair in Kael’s eyes.
And it thrilled him.
“Oh…” he breathed.
He looked at Brescia.
Then back at Kael.
And smiled.
“You know this beast?” he asked lightly.
“Let her go,” Kael growled. “Now.”
Juliq laughed.
A high, delighted sound that echoed through the basement.
“So you do know her, and she matters to you,” he said. “How fortunate.”
He stepped closer to Kael’s cell.
For the first time since his capture, Kael was truly struggling against the chains.
“This is wonderful,” Juliq continued. “Zrek.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“See to it that she lives at any cost,” the Count said. “She is going to help me break this one.”
“No!!” Kael roared, straining until the chains bit into his flesh. “Brescia!”
Juliq turned away, still laughing.
His footsteps faded up the stairs.
The sound lingered.
Kael was left behind. Alone.
Trapped between iron bars—with the woman he loved collapsing onto the cold stone floor across from him.
The screams Juliq had demanded—the screams Kael had denied him—finally filled the basement.
