By Gemma Pettinato I jolt upright with a gasp, blinking into the dark, half-choking on the stench. Rot. Damp stone. Old blood gone sweet. Familiar, intimately so, though not in the nostalgic sense. This dungeon is not one I’ve had the pleasure of bleeding in, but its perfume reminds me of every place I’ve ever

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“Why do you hate me?” The question comes slowly, as though even my lips are loath to form it. The room is not the sort to lend itself to such questions of introspection. It’s lavishly furnished, draped in velvet, edged in gold and drenched in decadence. Jewels glimmer in the ceiling and the embroidered canopy

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