Chapter 8 #2
Dark stains mark the floor. Old blood that never fully washed away, worn into the stone by time and trampling feet.
Cell doors line both walls, heavy iron the strongest human couldn’t open, a small, barred window providing the only light a prisoner ever sees.
Most of the doors are hanging open now to reveal the empty darkness within.
Some still have scratch marks, where desperate humans clawed their skin to bone in a futile attempt to free themselves.
The air is cold and damp, carrying the scent of earth, metal, and ancient suffering. Water drips somewhere in the distance, a steady rhythm that echoes off the walls. Everything is covered in a thin layer of dust and cobwebs, signs that no one has walked these floors in years.
But the whipping cross at the end of the corridor is still there, waiting.
The metal has been worn smooth by bodies pressed against it, with iron rings for binding arms, legs, necks, and any other part of their body that doesn’t hold still.
The floor around the whipping cross is darker than the rest, stained by the blood that ran like rivulets from bodies the whip had not finished breaking.
I can feel Clover trembling in my tight grasp.
At the sight of the whipping cross and all the whips and collars hanging on the wall next to it, she should be afraid.
Some of the whips are just wide lengths of coiled leather.
Some are braided and knotted to inflict more suffering.
The cruelest one has bone fragments and sharp metal woven into the braids.
“Have you ever been whipped before?” I ask, examining the soft skin her dress doesn’t hide, not seeing any scars.
“No, Your Majesty,” she whispers, her voice cracking, fear choking her as she tries to keep her mask of bravery intact. “But I’ve seen other people whipped.”
“Criminals, I’m sure,” I growl, dragging her the rest of the way to the whipping cross. “Even worse than regular humans.”
She doesn’t fight when I place her hands in position. I don’t even have to hold them there. Her hands tremble when I secure them with the leather restraints. The oil we use preserves the leather and keeps it soft, but I’m sure her wrists will be bleeding like her back when I’m done.
“Not criminals, Your Majesty,” she says, sniffling as she tests the restraints. “Just scared, innocent people.”
“If they weren’t criminals, then why were they whipped?” I ask, lowering myself to a knee so I can restrain her ankles.
“To send a message,” she says, now trembling from head to toe. “When a second-born tried to run in order to avoid being auctioned, their families were whipped in front of them after they were captured.”
I finish binding her ankles and rise, considering what she said as I take a step back.
It seems humans have gotten even crueler since The Great War.
That doesn’t stop me from putting a leather collar around her neck and attaching it to the iron ring, ensuring she’ll suffer and choke if she dares to collapse before I’m done whipping her.
“Did you ever try to run?” I ask, grabbing the back of her dress and ripping it open from the bottom of her neck to the curve of her ass, revealing a corset.
“No, Your Majesty,” she whimpers, trembling so hard it takes some effort to loosen her corset enough to tear it off her fragile frame.
She tries to look back at me, but the collar keeps her from turning her head much.
“I couldn’t do that to my family. They didn’t have a choice in how things worked any more than I did. ”
Her dress slides a little lower, exposing more of her ass as the weight of the fabric pushes her panties down a couple of inches.
I can’t help the twitch beneath my armor, my dick reminding me that it isn’t as old as I feel.
I haven’t bedded a woman since my wife died.
Never bedded a human at all, but my cock doesn’t care about my hatred right now.
“Why didn’t they whip the second-borns when they ran?” I ask, walking to the wall, ignoring the pressure in my crotch.
“Second-borns were too valuable to whip,” she whispers. “Scars aren’t popular at the Reparations Auction.”
My hand hesitates when I get to the second whip.
It’s the one I would expect to be used for the Reparations Penalty.
The first is better for prolonged whippings when we want prisoners to suffer through more than fifty lashes.
The third will leave wounds that require medical treatment.
It might even kill her, considering how small and fragile she is.
I don’t understand why I’m hesitating, but something about this still feels wrong. She’s a human. I should care more about the scum on my boots than her existence, no matter how much false courage she tries to hide her fear behind.
“What scares you more?” I ask, removing the whip from the wall, walking back behind her trembling form. “The pain that will make you scream or the scars you’ll wear for the rest of your life?”
“I don’t care about the scars,” she whispers, bracing herself on the whipping cross like she expects to feel my wrath at any moment. “You’re the only one who will ever see them.”
The whip hangs loose in my hand, the leather stretched across the floor, ready to be unleashed. Ready to deliver the kind of suffering humans earned long before this one was born.
I should like her answer. Knowing that her body will be forever marked as punishment for what her people did. That every time I’m forced to look at her, I’ll remember how much I made her scream. That might actually bring some comfort in my final days.
But I can’t bring myself to crack the whip.
Maybe time has dulled more than my blade.