Chapter 25 In Silence
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IN SILENCE
There’s a kind of stillness that comes with choosing not to break.
For seven nights, I wore silence like chainmail, letting Valen’s blades, his words, his power wash over me without penetrating the fortress of my muteness. Each cut was met with nothing but the ragged sound of my breathing. Each taunt with empty eyes that offered nothing in return.
It wasn’t bravery that kept my lips sealed.
It was spite, cold and clarifying spite.
Both Valen and my harbinger had made their positions painfully clear. I was insignificant, a means to an end, nothing more. A diversion from their existences. So I withdrew into myself, built walls of silence that neither god nor prisoner could breach.
If I were to be a spectacle, I would be a silent one.
Water dripped somewhere beyond my cell, a steady, rhythmic counterpoint to my thoughts.
The dungeons of Vareth had their own music that I had come to appreciate—water on stone, the distant skitter of rat claws, the occasional moan of ancient timbers settling deeper into the earth.
I had learned to differentiate between sounds that mattered and those that did not.
The scrape of boots on stone mattered. The whisper of fabric as Valen paced my cell mattered.
The silence from the wall that separated me from my harbinger mattered most of all, though I would never admit it aloud.
The routine had become almost soothing in its predictability.
The guards would come at dusk, three figures now familiar enough that I could distinguish them without looking up.
The oldest with his weathered hands and slight limp from an old battle wound.
The middle who could never meet my eyes directly, but always checked the manacles twice to ensure they weren’t cutting into my wrists more than necessary.
The youngest with his now crooked nose and careful movements, who had stopped flinching at the sight of my bloodied body.
I hadn’t uttered a word to them either.
Valen’s nightly visits had developed their own twisted choreography as well.
After the guards secured me, he would enter with deceptive casualness, circling me like a predator assessing its prey.
His power would brush against my skin, testing, tasting, seeking weakness.
Then would come the blade—sometimes a dagger, sometimes a small curved knife that reminded me uncomfortably of the tools used to carve delicate designs in precious woods.
He no longer used the whip. That first night had been an experiment, I realized—a test to see how I would respond to the familiar torment of my childhood.
When I had retreated into myself, denying him the pleasure of my fear, he had abandoned that approach for more intimate methods.
The cuts were his preferred medium now, each one placed with an artist’s precision, neither deep enough to cause dangerous blood loss nor shallow enough to heal without scarring.
What had changed over the past week was his demeanor.
Where once he had filled our sessions with taunts and questions, now he worked in near-silence, his frustration manifesting in the occasional tightening of his jaw or the sharp exhalation of breath when I failed to respond to some particularly inventive torment.
Sometimes I caught him studying my face with an intensity that went beyond mere cruelty—a searching quality, as if he were trying to solve some puzzle I represented.
Most disturbing were the moments of tenderness—fleeting touches that felt wrong against the backdrop of calculated pain.
A thumb brushed across my cheek, fingers tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, the gentle pressure of his hand against my sternum as he checked my heartbeat after a session that had left me light-headed from blood loss.
These small mercies were more unsettling than the cuts themselves, suggesting complexities to his hatred that I did not wish to contemplate.
At the end of each session, he would heal me just enough—his power sealing the wounds to prevent festering while ensuring they would leave their marks upon my skin.
The process itself was another form of torment, a burning sensation that crawled beneath my skin like fire ants.
He seemed to take particular pleasure in watching my face during these “mercies,” perhaps hoping the different quality of pain might finally break my silence.
It hadn’t.
After, the guards would return, lowering me from my chains with careful efficiency, then cleaning the blood from my skin and dressing me in a fresh shift.
The garments never lasted more than a single session—Valen would tear them apart at the beginning of each night, exposing my flesh to the chill air and his hungry gaze.
The destruction seemed to please him, a small ritual of dominance before the main performance began.
Tonight, I decided, would be different.
I rose from my mat, ignoring the protest of muscles that had grown accustomed to pain but never comfortable with it.
My legs trembled slightly, weakened from poor nutrition and the nightly trauma visited upon my body.
Still, they held me as I moved to the center of the cell, directly beneath the iron rings that would soon hold me suspended.
With deliberate slowness, I reached for the hem of my shift. The fabric was rough against my fingers, already spotted with blood from wounds that had reopened during my fitful sleep. I pulled it over my head in one smooth motion, the air cool against my newly exposed skin.
Goosebumps rose across my flesh, but I ignored them, focusing instead on folding the garment with meticulous care.
Each crease was precise, each fold exact.
This small act of order in a world of chaos steadied me, reminded me that choices remained, however limited.
When the shift lay in a perfect square, I placed it in the corner of my cell, far from where blood would drip onto stone.
I stood naked in the center of my cell, arms at my sides, back straight despite the wounds that pulled with every movement.
My body was a map of Valen’s obsession now—thin white lines from older sessions overlaid with pinker, newer scars, a network of deliberately placed suffering.
Some patterns swept across my ribs like curving script, others formed geometric designs across my abdomen and thighs.
My back bore the worst of it—crosshatched welts from the whip’s first introduction, overlaid with the more precise cuts that had come later.
I waited, watching the light fade from my cell as twilight deepened into true darkness. The torches in the corridor cast long, flickering shadows through the bars, transforming the stone walls into canvas for restless, shifting shapes. Time seemed to slow, each moment tight with anticipation.
When I heard their footsteps, I didn’t move. Three sets of boots, three familiar gaits approaching my cell. Keys jingled, metal scraped against metal, and then they were there—three silhouettes framed by torchlight.
The oldest entered first, his limp more pronounced today than yesterday.
He stopped short when he saw me, surprise breaking through his professional detachment.
The middle guard bumped into him from behind, a soft grunt escaping as he steadied himself against the doorframe.
The youngest came last, eyes widening before he quickly averted his gaze to the floor.
“Princess,” the oldest said—uncertain, almost a question.
I did not respond, my eyes fixed on some point beyond their shoulders.
The youngest guard stepped forward, retrieving my folded shift from the corner. He approached cautiously, as if I were a wild animal that might startle. “You should put this on,” he said softly, holding the garment toward me. “We’ll replace it afterwards.”
I shook my head once, a simple, unyielding denial.
Their discomfort was palpable, a tangible thing that filled the small cell like smoke. They exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them. The oldest gave a short nod, resignation evident in the slump of his shoulders.
“The King will be along soon,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “We have our orders.”
They moved with reluctance, positioning themselves on either side of me. The middle guard produced the cuffs while the oldest steadied my right arm. The youngest hung back, still holding my folded shift, indecision written across his features.
“Are you certain of this?” he asked, his still unhealed nose making the words sound thick and strange.
I met his eyes directly for the first time in days. The unwavering steadiness of my gaze was answer enough.
They worked efficiently despite their discomfort, securing the cuffs around my wrists with care to avoid aggravating the raw skin beneath.
The chains rattled as they pulled them taut, lifting me until I stood on the balls of my feet, arms stretched above my head in that now-familiar position of vulnerability.
They completed their task without further comment, checking that the restraints were secure without being tight enough to cut off circulation. The youngest cast one final, troubled glance at me before following his companions into the corridor, leaving the cell door open as always.
Alone again, I hung suspended between floor and ceiling, laid bare to the breath of the dungeon.
Pain radiated through my shoulders, the familiar fire that had become the backdrop to my existence.
My breasts felt heavy, pulled upward by the position of my arms, nipples hardening in the chill.
The older scars across my torso gleamed silver in the torchlight, while the newer ones retained their angry red hue, a testament to Valen’s recent attentions.
I focused on my breathing—slow, deliberate inhalations followed by measured exhalations.
Each breath expanded my ribs, pulling at the cuts that decorated them, a minor symphony of pain that helped anchor me to the present moment.
I would need that focus when Valen arrived, when he discovered I had taken away his ritual of exposing me.
This small rebellion was dangerous, I knew.
It might drive him to greater cruelty, might push him beyond the careful boundaries he had established.
Yet it was mine. My choice, my defiance, my silent declaration that something within me remained unbroken despite his best efforts.
Time passed with excruciating slowness. The blood gradually drained from my upraised arms, leaving them tingling and numb. My calves trembled with the effort of maintaining my precarious balance on the balls of my feet. Still, I held my head high, eyes fixed on the open doorway, waiting.
When I finally heard his approach, my heart betrayed me with its quickened pace.
His footsteps were unmistakable—deliberate, measured, the walk of someone who never questioned his right to occupy any space he entered.
The sound grew louder, echoing off stone walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once, surrounding me like the pressure before a storm.
Then he was there, filling the doorway with his tall frame, darkness made manifest. For one heartbeat, two, three, he remained perfectly still, his expression hidden in shadow as he took in the sight before him—my naked body suspended from the chains, no shift to shred, marking the beginning of our nightly ritual.
His silhouette moved, one slow step into my cell.
The torchlight caught his face as he entered, illuminating features that remained unnervingly beautiful despite the cruelty I knew they could contain.
His eyes were the darkest I’d ever seen them, pupils expanded until only a thin ring of iris remained visible.
“Well,” Valen said, his voice soft as falling ash, “this is unexpected.”