Dead Plate Oneshots To Suffer Forever

The autumn wind howled through the creaking wooden beams of Rody Lamoree’s house, shaking the few shutters still hanging on their hinges. It was a house that looked like it had seen better days—just like the man who lived inside it. The air was thick with smoke from the hearth, but it did little to warm the space or its lone inhabitant, who sat at a table with his hands gripping the edge, knuckles white from the pressure.

Rody had spent weeks planning this moment, and every second of it had been steeped in hate. The taste of bile, of helplessness, was a constant in his throat. It had been there since the day Manon had been dragged from their home, accused of witchcraft and condemned without mercy by the council. She had been bound to the pyre in the village square, her body consumed by flames, while Rody had been forced to watch, powerless to stop them.

And then there was *him*.

Vincent Charbonneau, standing in the crowd, dressed in the finest silks, with that calm, detached expression on his face. Untouchable. Untainted. While others burned, while innocents screamed, Vincent watched from the safety of his pedestal—blessed by the gods, they said. He was immune to the fate that befell others, his immortality seen as a divine gift, a sign that he was above suspicion, above reproach.

The council revered him. His connections ran deep, and not even whispers of witchcraft could tarnish his name. Some even believed that Vincent’s immortality was proof of his favor with the heavens, that he had been spared the trials because he was chosen, while those less fortunate—like Manon—were condemned for the slightest misstep.

It sickened Rody.

No one had questioned why Vincent had survived all these years without aging, without suffering the consequences of mortality. He was adored, untouchable. No matter what Rody had done, no matter how much he had *begged* for Vincent’s help, he had been ignored.

Rody had knelt in the mud, hands clasped together in desperate prayer, pleading for Vincent to intervene, to say something—anything—that would save Manon. But Vincent had remained silent, his dark eyes watching with a cold, distant gaze. His lips, always soft-spoken and calculated, had offered no reprieve.

And Rody had hated him for it every day since.

Now, Vincent sat across from him, his fine clothes at odds with the simple, rough-hewn interior of Rody’s home. The flickering candlelight danced across his pale face, casting shadows under his eyes, making him look gaunt and ghostly. His black eyes met Rody’s, the faintest smile playing on his lips, a cruel sort of affection always lingering there.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Vincent remarked, his voice as smooth as ever, betraying nothing of the tension between them. He reached for the goblet of wine Rody had poured, unaware—or perhaps uncaring—that it had been laced with sleeping herbs.

Rody clenched his teeth. He had to play along for just a little longer. His fingers dug deeper into the table’s edge, the wood biting into his skin. “Eat. Drink. Enjoy yourself,” Rody muttered, forcing the words out. He stood up, walking to the hearth to stir the fire, his back turned to Vincent. He couldn’t look at him, not now, not when everything was so close.

Vincent, oblivious, did as he was told. He sipped the wine slowly, savoring it, though it lacked the sophistication of the wines served at his estate. Rody had deliberately kept the meal simple—nothing to suggest the night was anything more than another of Vincent’s many attempts to get close to him. Vincent had been in love with him for years, though Rody had never once returned those affections. In truth, it had disgusted him.

But Vincent never tired. His affection was a sick sort of thing, festering and patient, confident that Rody would come around one day. That he would break under the weight of it. Rody had used that against him now, luring him here with promises of companionship he had no intention of fulfilling.

“I didn’t know you’d learned to cook,” Vincent said, after a few bites of the stew Rody had served him.

Rody’s fingers tightened around the fire poker. His heart pounded in his chest, the noise of it filling his ears, louder than the crackling of the fire. “I’ve had to learn to do a lot of things, thanks to you.”

Vincent’s smile faded slightly, but he remained composed, as always. “What do you mean?”

Rody didn’t answer. He turned back around, watching as Vincent’s eyelids grew heavy, his movements sluggish. The herbs were working. Rody’s heart raced in anticipation, the moment he had dreamt of for so long finally within reach.

Vincent blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion as he set down the spoon. “What… did you…?”

Rody took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. “Do you know what it was like, standing there, watching them burn her?” His voice was low, trembling with barely restrained fury. “Do you know what it was like to beg, to *plead* for her life, knowing that you could save her and choosing not to?”

Vincent tried to rise from the chair, but his body was sluggish, unresponsive. He blinked again, swaying, and then slumped back into the seat. “Rody…”

“You could’ve saved her, and you didn’t. You watched. *You watched,*” Rody hissed, grabbing him by the collar, jerking him forward. He could smell the faint scent of herbs on Vincent’s breath, could see the confusion in his eyes as the drug took full effect.

He didn’t care.

It was easy to drag Vincent’s limp body to the carriage. Easy to load him in, to cover him in rough blankets to hide him from prying eyes. Rody had planned everything meticulously. He had scouted the route, chosen a secluded place far from the village where no one would ever think to look for them. The journey was long, the road rough, but Rody felt no weariness. The thought of what was to come fueled him, kept him awake, kept his heart pounding.

When they arrived at the clearing, he yanked Vincent from the carriage, dragging him to the ground. He stared at the man who had once been so untouchable, so invincible. Rody’s lip curled in disgust.

Vincent, now slowly waking from the herbs, groaned, his black eyes fluttering open. His movements were sluggish, weak. “What are you—”

Rody didn’t let him finish. With a savage snarl, he punched Vincent across the face, hard enough to split his lip. The force of it knocked Vincent back, but Rody didn’t stop. He grabbed Vincent by the throat, squeezing hard enough to make his breath hitch. Vincent’s hands came up to grasp at Rody’s wrists, but the drug had weakened him too much.

“You can’t die, can you?” Rody spat, tightening his grip until Vincent’s face began to turn red. “I can do anything I want to you, and you’ll just come back.”

Vincent’s mouth opened, gasping for air, but no words came out. His eyes were wide, confused, panicked.

Rody released his grip for a moment, just long enough for Vincent to take a ragged breath, before slamming his fist into his face again. Blood splattered from Vincent’s nose, but Rody didn’t stop. He kept hitting him, again and again, until Vincent’s face was a mess of blood and bruises.

And still, Rody didn’t stop.

Vincent couldn’t scream. His body convulsed in pain as Rody stabbed the knife deep into his chest, the blade twisting cruelly. Vincent’s black eyes stared up at him, filled with a mixture of pain, confusion, and something else—something sick, like longing.

Rody stabbed him again. And again. And again.

He wasn’t satisfied until Vincent’s body lay still, blood pooling on the ground beneath him. Rody stood over him, panting, his chest heaving with exertion. But even as he stared at the broken, bloody mess in front of him, he knew it wasn’t over.

Vincent would come back. He *always* came back.

And sure enough, after a few moments, Vincent’s body twitched. His chest began to rise and fall once more, his skin knitting itself back together as though nothing had happened. The bruises faded. The blood evaporated. Vincent’s eyes fluttered open, and he gasped, sucking in a sharp breath as though waking from a nightmare.

Rody stood over him, watching. “Get up,” he commanded, his voice cold, flat. “We’re not done.”

Vincent’s eyes met his, and there was no mistaking the fear in them now.

Rody smiled, a cruel, twisted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re going to suffer, Vincent. You’re going to suffer like she did.”

He grabbed Vincent by the hair, yanking him to his feet, dragging him toward the river.

The river roared as it cut through the landscape, the moonlight reflecting off its dark, turbulent waters. The night air was cold, biting, but it didn’t matter to Rody. Nothing mattered except the twisted satisfaction that came with every pained gasp Vincent made as he dragged him across the rocky ground.

Vincent’s legs stumbled beneath him, still weak from the herbs, still reeling from the pain of his body knitting itself back together. His face was pale, streaked with blood, though no wounds remained. He was immortal, after all, *blessed by the gods,* they said. He could withstand anything—every blade, every blow, every torment.

But Rody didn’t care about his supposed divinity.

Vincent’s immortality was a curse. It wasn’t a gift from the gods. It was something Rody would exploit, over and over again, until his hatred burned itself out—if it ever did. Until the hole in his chest, where Manon’s memory lingered, was filled with something other than rage.

As they reached the edge of the riverbank, Vincent’s feet slipped on the damp earth, and he fell forward, his hands scraping against the rocks. His breath was ragged, shallow, as he tried to pull himself up, but Rody didn’t give him the chance. He grabbed Vincent by the back of his coat, hoisting him up, and then slammed him into the mud.

“You thought you were untouchable,” Rody hissed, crouching down beside him, his fingers gripping Vincent’s chin roughly. “Blessed by the gods, wasn’t that what they said? Everyone in the village looked up to you, even when people burned. Even when they *screamed* for mercy, you were untouchable. You were safe.”

Vincent’s eyes flickered with a moment of fear as his lips parted to speak, but Rody’s hand tightened, cutting off whatever words might have come out. “Manon begged for her life, and you let her burn. She wasn’t a witch. She didn’t deserve it. But you—*you*—stood there and watched.”

“I—” Vincent tried to speak, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper.

“You could have saved her!” Rody’s shout echoed against the trees, loud enough to make the birds take flight from the branches. His chest heaved with fury. His grip tightened on Vincent’s throat, his fingers digging into the skin as he forced Vincent’s head down toward the water. “But you didn’t.”

And with that, he plunged Vincent’s face into the freezing river.

The current was strong, pulling at Vincent’s body as Rody held him there, his hands gripping the back of his head, pressing him down into the water until the bubbles from Vincent’s mouth slowed and then stopped. Vincent thrashed beneath him, but the struggle didn’t last long. His limbs went limp, his body yielding to the river’s icy grip.

Rody kept him submerged for what felt like an eternity, long enough for Vincent’s heart to stop, long enough for his body to grow cold. But even then, Rody didn’t move. He stood there, knee-deep in the river, his hands shaking, his heart pounding as he stared at the dark water swirling around them.

Was it enough? Would it ever be enough?

He pulled Vincent’s lifeless body from the water and dropped him unceremoniously onto the riverbank. For a long moment, Rody just stood there, watching, waiting.

And then, just like before, Vincent’s body twitched. The pale skin of his chest rose and fell with the shallow breaths of life returning. His eyes fluttered open, wide and panicked, as he gasped, sputtering water from his mouth.

Rody crouched beside him, his eyes cold, devoid of mercy. “How does it feel?” he asked, his voice low and venomous. “To drown? To *die,* only to come back? Over and over again?”

Vincent coughed, choking on the water still caught in his lungs. His voice was barely audible, a broken rasp. “Rody… please…”

“Please?” Rody laughed, a bitter sound, full of years of hate and suffering. “Isn’t that what she said? Isn’t that what Manon said when they tied her to the stake? Didn’t she beg you like this?”

Vincent’s dark eyes, wide with fear, stared up at him. For the first time, Rody saw something break in Vincent’s composure, something fragile beneath that cold, immortal shell. The fear was real now. He wasn’t untouchable. He wasn’t safe.

“You deserve this,” Rody said, his voice cold as ice. He reached for the knife again, the one still wet with Vincent’s blood. “You deserve every moment of pain. Every death. You’re going to feel it all.”

With one swift motion, he plunged the knife into Vincent’s chest, twisting it deep between his ribs. Vincent’s body arched in pain, his mouth opening in a silent scream as the blade twisted deeper. His hands grasped weakly at Rody’s wrists, trying to pull the knife free, but he had no strength left. The immortal baker who had once been so revered, so blessed,so beloved even by the royals, was nothing more than a helpless, writhing mess before him.

And Rody wasn’t finished.

He withdrew the knife, watching as Vincent gasped for breath, his hands clutching at the wound. Blood poured from the gash, soaking the ground beneath them, but it wouldn’t last. It never did. No matter how much Rody hurt him, no matter how many times he killed him, Vincent would always come back.

“You’ll heal,” Rody whispered, his voice cold and flat. “And then I’ll do it again.”

The moon climbed higher in the sky, its pale light casting long shadows across the clearing. The river continued to roar, oblivious to the scene unfolding beside it. Rody stood over Vincent’s still-twitching body, watching as the wound slowly began to close itself, the blood drying, the skin knitting back together.

Vincent’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body convulsing as life returned to it once more. His eyes, dark and terrified, locked onto Rody’s.

“Rody…” he whispered, his voice broken, pleading. “Stop…”

Rody leaned down, his face inches from Vincent’s. His voice was soft, but laced with venom. “This is only the beginning.”

And as Vincent’s body healed, as his immortal flesh repaired itself once more, Rody reached for the knife.

There was still so much more to do.

The night stretched on, the moon now high above them, casting an eerie glow over the desolate clearing by the river. Rody’s breath came in ragged bursts, but he felt no exhaustion. Not yet. Not while Vincent still lived. Not while there was still work to be done.

Vincent coughed weakly as his body recovered from the knife wound, the ragged gash on his chest knitting back together. His pale skin was smeared with blood and dirt, his once-pristine appearance now ravaged by the violence Rody had unleashed upon him. Yet, as always, he began to stir, the cursed gift of immortality pulling him back from the brink once again.

Rody stood over him, cold determination etched into his features. This time, he would burn.

Rody dragged Vincent’s limp form across the forest floor, toward the small pile of dry branches and logs he had prepared earlier. His hands shook with the thrill of what he was about to do, of the knowledge that he could keep going, keep tormenting the man who had cost him everything. Vincent’s immortality gave Rody the freedom to kill him as many times as he wished.

He piled the logs high around Vincent’s body, stacking them carefully as Vincent coughed, barely conscious. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, each one labored as he tried to fight off the lingering effects of the herbs. His eyes fluttered open as Rody struck the match, the faint orange glow illuminating his face in the darkness.

“Rody…” Vincent’s voice was weak, barely more than a whisper. There was no arrogance left in him now, no defiance. Just a broken plea for mercy. But mercy was something Rody no longer had.

The match fell onto the dry wood, igniting in a blaze of light. The flames roared to life, crackling and spitting as they devoured the branches, climbing higher and higher until they licked at Vincent’s legs, crawling up his body.

Vincent screamed.

The sound was unlike anything Rody had ever heard before. It was raw, primal, filled with pain and terror as the fire consumed him. His hands flailed uselessly, trying to bat away the flames, but there was nothing he could do. The fire engulfed him, swallowing him whole, reducing his clothes to ash, his skin blackening and peeling as the heat seared his flesh.

Rody stood a few feet away, watching it all. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, thick and nauseating, but Rody barely noticed. His eyes were locked on Vincent, watching as the flames did their work, as they turned him into little more than a charred, writhing figure in the night. Even in the depths of his agony, Vincent’s eyes found Rody’s, pleading, desperate.

But Rody felt nothing. No pity. No guilt. Only a grim satisfaction.

Vincent’s screams faded as the fire continued to burn, his body twitching violently before finally going still. The flames crackled on, the last remnants of Vincent’s form turning to ash as the fire reduced him to nothing more than a blackened skeleton beneath the roaring inferno.

But it wouldn’t last.

Rody knew it wouldn’t last.

He waited. He always had to wait.

As the fire began to die down, the embers glowing red in the dark, Vincent’s charred remains began to move. Slowly, impossibly, the blackened bones cracked and shifted, the flesh regrowing itself, knitting together with horrifying speed. The ash flaked away, revealing pale, unblemished skin underneath. It was as if the flames had never touched him.

Vincent gasped as life returned to his body once more, his lungs filling with air, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. His body shuddered violently, his eyes wild with panic as he came back to himself, his voice barely above a broken whisper.

“Please… no more…”

But Rody wasn’t done.

He grabbed Vincent by the collar, pulling him up to his knees, his face inches from Vincent’s.

“Do you think this is enough?” Rody snarled, his voice low and filled with venom. “Do you think I’m finished with you?”

Vincent’s eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling uncontrollably. He tried to speak, tried to beg for mercy, but Rody’s hand tightened around his throat, cutting off his air. Vincent’s fingers clawed weakly at Rody’s wrist, but there was no strength left in him, no fight.

Rody pushed him down again, his hands wrapping tightly around Vincent’s neck. The pale skin beneath his fingers felt so fragile, so breakable. And it was. For all Vincent’s immortality, for all his resilience, his flesh was still just flesh. His bones still broke. His lungs still suffocated.

Rody squeezed harder, watching as Vincent’s face turned red, then blue, as his lips parted in a desperate attempt to breathe. His eyes bulged, his body convulsing beneath Rody’s weight as he strangled the life out of him, as he crushed the very breath from his lungs.

It was slow, agonizing. Rody could feel every pulse of Vincent’s heartbeat under his fingers, could see every last desperate gasp for air. And then, with one final shudder, Vincent went limp.

His eyes, wide and glassy, stared up at the sky as the last breath left his body.

But Rody knew it wouldn’t last. It never did.

He released his grip, watching as Vincent’s chest lay still, as his body grew cold in the night air. But only minutes passed before the familiar twitching began again, before Vincent’s lungs filled with air once more, and he returned, gasping, choking, alive.

Rody let out a bitter laugh, his hands shaking as he stood over Vincent’s broken form. How many times had it been now? Ten? Twelve? He had lost count. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. As long as Vincent kept coming back, Rody would keep killing him. Over and over. Until the fury in his chest burned out.

But for now, the rage still burned brightly.

And so would Vincent.

Rody pulled a coil of rope from the nearby tree, the one he had set up earlier. It was crude but effective. He tied a noose with practiced hands, the knot tight and secure as he looped it around Vincent’s neck. Vincent, still barely conscious, didn’t resist. His body was broken, his spirit shattered. There was no fight left in him.

Rody hoisted Vincent to his feet and dragged him toward the tree, his body limp and unresponsive. With a grunt of effort, Rody threw the rope over the thick branch and pulled, lifting Vincent’s body off the ground. The noose tightened around his throat, cutting off his air, and Vincent’s body convulsed violently as he dangled from the tree, his feet kicking uselessly in the air.

He didn’t last long.

Vincent’s body went still after a few moments, hanging limply from the noose, his eyes wide and empty as death claimed him once more.

But Rody didn’t cut him down.

He left him there, dangling from the tree, his lifeless body swaying gently in the breeze. He watched, waiting, knowing that soon enough, the cycle would begin again. Vincent’s cursed body would heal itself. He would return, gasping, choking, alive once more.

And when he did, Rody would be waiting.

Waiting to kill him again.

Rody stood in the silence of the clearing, watching Vincent’s body hang lifelessly from the tree. The night around him was still, the fire reduced to smoldering embers, its heat now a distant memory. But within Rody, the flames of vengeance burned ever hotter. He felt no satisfaction, no relief. There was only the gnawing emptiness left by loss. The sight of Vincent, gasping for breath as he returned to life, stirred none of the pity it should have.

He hated that this wasn’t enough.

A soft gurgling broke the silence. Vincent’s body, twisted and lifeless only moments ago, shuddered violently as life forced its way back into his broken form. His neck twisted grotesquely, the rope tightening as his bones cracked and realigned beneath the tension. His limbs jerked, convulsing, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his lungs filled with air once again.

Rody tightened his fists, watching with cold, unblinking eyes. He had expected this. Always the same—this twisted resurrection.

Vincent’s legs kicked feebly as he regained consciousness, his hands clawing at the rope that strangled him. His once calm, aristocratic face was now a mask of sheer terror. He thrashed wildly, choking on his sobs. The realization of what was happening, of what had been happening, was etched clearly in his eyes—there was no escape from Rody’s wrath.

“Please…” Vincent rasped, his voice hoarse, his throat torn from the noose’s pressure. “I beg you… enough…”

Rody stood there, his breathing slow and controlled. He didn’t need to wait long. Even after having his neck broken, Vincent would soon recover, his cursed immortality ensuring that death was never more than a brief inconvenience.

Maybe he should try drowning him again.

Without a word, Rody cut the rope, letting Vincent’s limp body fall to the ground with a thud. He dragged him to the nearby riverbank, uncaring of the slowly healing Rody knelt at the river’s edge, forcing Vincent’s head beneath the surface. Water splashed up around them, but Rody held him down firmly, his hands pressing hard against Vincent’s skull, keeping him submerged.

Vincent’s body flailed beneath the water, his limbs spasming in panic as his lungs fought for air. His hands clawed at Rody’s arms, weak and desperate, but Rody didn’t let go. He watched as the bubbles rose to the surface, as Vincent’s thrashing became slower, weaker, until finally, his body went limp.

The river was silent once more and cuts that marred Vincent’s pale skin. The water was dark and cold, the surface reflecting the pale light of the moon as it flowed steadily past.

Rody sat back, breathing heavily, his hands still gripping Vincent’s head as he watched the water flow past. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that this time, it was over. But the moment passed quickly. Vincent’s body twitched beneath the water, and Rody knew—just like before—he would rise again.

It didn’t matter what he did. Strangulation, drowning, stabbing—it was never enough. There was no end to the torment, no finality to be found.

Maybe he should try burning him again. That’s how they took Manon from him.

Fire.

Not just a fire to consume Vincent’s flesh, but a fire that would burn him from the inside out.

Rody stood, pulling Vincent’s waterlogged body out of the river. He dragged him back to the clearing, where the fire from earlier still smoldered in the center. Vincent’s body had already begun to stir, coughing up water as his lungs filled with air once more. His eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain and confusion.

Without a word, Rody grabbed the bottle of oil he had hidden in the carriage earlier, uncorking it with a sharp twist. The thick liquid sloshed inside as he poured it over Vincent’s recovering form, soaking his hair, his clothes, his skin.

Vincent’s eyes widened in horror as the realization dawned on him.

“No… Rody, no… please… not again…”

Rody ignored his pleas. He struck a match.

The flame hissed to life, small and fragile in the darkness, but full of promise. He dropped it onto Vincent’s oil-soaked body without hesitation.

The fire erupted instantly, engulfing Vincent in a roaring blaze. His screams tore through the night, louder and more agonized than before, his body writhing violently as the flames consumed him. His skin blistered and blackened, the fire eating away at him with a voracious hunger.

Rody stepped back, watching the inferno. Watching Vincent burn.

It didn’t matter how many times he killed Vincent. He would keep doing it. He would keep watching him suffer, over and over again, until the memory of Manon’s burning body no longer haunted his every waking thought.

But even as Vincent’s screams faded into the crackling of the fire, Rody knew one thing for certain.

Vincent would return.

And when he did, Rody would be waiting.

——-

Vincent remembered the councilman’s eyes—the cold, unwavering stare that pinned him in place as the threat was delivered. The man’s words echoed in his mind like the crackling of flames, the heat of the fire still burning his body.

*”Interfere again, Charbonneau, and we’ll burn you until nothing is left. Over and over, until your soul is nothing but ash. Immortality won’t save you from the pain. You’ll scream for an end, and none will come.”*

Vincent had sat frozen in the council chamber, his usual composure crumbling beneath the weight of the warning. He wasn’t foolish. He knew the council’s power, knew they were capable of making good on their threats. His immortality was a blessing—or so the world believed—but to Vincent, it was a curse. One that bound him to this life of endless suffering, of constant rebirth without reprieve.

The witch trials were growing fiercer, and even his influence was being stretched thin. He’d already pushed his luck once, quietly pulling strings to save others—people like the tailor’s teenage daughter,the seamstress’s 13 year old daughter and so many others. But the council had eyes everywhere, and when they discovered his interference, they made their message clear.

Intervene again, and he would suffer. Again and again. Forever.

And then came Rody. Desperate, pleading. His voice trembled as he begged for Manon’s life, his face pale with fear, with hope. Hope that Vincent could save her. Hope that Vincent would.

But Vincent had stood there, paralyzed, a lump in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to help, to say something—*do* something. He wanted to reach out, to assure Rody that he would fix everything, that Manon would be safe. He wanted to give him hope. But instead, he had remained silent, his hands trembling behind his back.

Rody had looked at him, eyes brimming with desperation, with disbelief. As though he couldn’t understand why Vincent—who had always seemed so powerful, so connected—was doing nothing.

“Please…” Rody had whispered, his voice breaking. “You *can* help her. I know you can.”

Vincent’s throat tightened, but he had turned away. He couldn’t face Rody’s pleading eyes, couldn’t bear the weight of his trust.

But fear had bound him. Fear of the council. Fear of the flames.

Fear of being burned alive again and again.

So, he did nothing.

He remembered the way Rody’s voice cracked, the way his words faltered when he realized Vincent wasn’t going to intervene. The anger that replaced the desperation. The hatred.

Vincent had never stopped hating himself for it.

Now, as the flames consumed him once more, burning his flesh and searing his bones, he understood the true weight of his cowardice. He had failed Rody. He had failed Manon.

The council had won. They had scared him into silence.

And now, Rody’s hatred was the punishment he had long feared. The endless cycle of pain, suffering, and death—only this time, it wasn’t the council behind the fire.

It was Rody.

And Vincent deserved every moment of it.