Chapter 29 Tobias
Tobias
The crack of bones breaking echoed off the dungeon walls.
Tobias clenched his jaw, failing to swallow his scream as sweat dripped down his temples.
He had thought that given the repetition, he’d grow used to torture, that his flesh would harden and numb.
Instead, his skin was open, wet, and raw, his muscles ached, and his bones protruded at unnatural angles.
Each slash cut deeper, each jab came in stronger, and each scream cut through his throat with a fiery edge.
There was no numbness. The pain only got worse.
Another harsh snap, and a howl ripped free from Tobias’s lips.
The warden hovered over him, his gaze impassive as Tobias’s broken finger remained mangled in his grasp.
Tobias hated that man. It didn’t matter that he had been feeding him while Brontes convened with his vultures, that the purgar had eased his aching jaw.
He felt nothing but contempt for the man who left him marred.
“Are we feeling vocal now?” Brontes said. “Care to share anything with me?”
Tobias’s lips sputtered blood, but he shot the man a glare regardless.
Brontes leaned against the wall beside his usual line of guards, their faces perpetually devoid of emotion.
The warden may have been vile, but at least he was honest. Brontes never visited Tobias without his loyal soldiers, and their numbers seemed to increase with each passing day.
Who was he so afraid of? It was hard to imagine Brontes as vulnerable when Tobias was the one beaten and shamed.
Brontes came in closer, staring down at Tobias with a probing gaze.
Tobias sat in his usual wooden chair, his wrists, chest, and ankles bound with rope that sliced into his flesh.
He glared at Brontes, though feigning fortitude was becoming increasingly difficult to do.
A single vein bulged in Brontes’s forehead, and Tobias braced himself.
“Take out his eye,” Brontes said.
Tobias lurched in his seat, fighting for freedom.
It was useless; the legs of the chair were bolted to the floor, but his instincts fired off, begging for the strength to free himself from his bindings.
No such escape occurred, and when the masked man gripped Tobias’s face and held it in place, Tobias couldn’t stop the tears that streamed down his cheeks.
The warden froze, Tobias’s face in one hand, a blade in the other.
“I said, take out his eye, you daft cunt!” Brontes spat.
“You’d have him carry your likeness?” The warden turned to Brontes. “To have him marked as you are would be a badge of honor he hasn’t earned.”
Brontes’s neck flexed, contained rage alive in his reddening face. He was stewing over the warden’s words, visibly conflicted. Snarling, he snatched the blade from the man’s fist.
“For fuck’s sake, I’ll do it myself—”
“Your Majesty.” Feet pattered down the stairwell, and a familiar round face appeared—Wembleton, another worthless fuck. “News from the palace. Heralds have told the people of your great victory.”
“Leave us,” Brontes growled.
“General Stratos needs to speak with you,” Wembleton quickly added, trepidation alive in his voice. “He said it’s quite urgent.”
Brontes glanced between Wembleton and Tobias for long, torturous seconds. Finally, he growled. “Put him in his cell.”
He shoved the blade against the warden’s chest and followed Wembleton up the dungeon stairs, his line of guards dutifully trailing his every step.
The masked man untied Tobias’s bindings with some semblance of care, then half-ushered, half-dragged Tobias to his cell, discarding him before locking the door behind him.
General Stratos. It was the second time Tobias had heard that name, but he was too depleted to ponder who that man could be.
Cringing, he pulled himself across the dirt floor with his one good hand, cradling the other until he reached the corner of his cell.
Bars pressed against his gashed back, and he winced, then tried to find an adequate manner of leaning that didn’t somehow reopen any of his wounds.
The endeavor was futile, and he eventually succumbed to his reality—that pain was as constant to him as breathing, a forever looming punishment.
Pippa whimpered in the cell next to his, and he realized then that they weren’t alone.
A woman leaned against the banister of the stairwell, an emerald silk dress cinching her buxom figure, an understated silver crown nestled amid her red hair.
Pippa’s lip wobbled, grief alive in her gaze, while disgust roiled in Tobias’s stomach.
He’d forgotten about this one. He hated her too.
“Poor Artist,” Cosima cooed. “You’re not looking well these days.”
“You’re looking like the same crooked bitch you’ve always been.”
She sauntered closer, a smug smirk plastered across Her full lips. “That’s no way to speak to your queen.”
“He will never make you queen. Surely you must know that. You’re not stupid. Or are you?”
Cosima didn’t react. She grabbed a lone chair and dragged it toward the cell, taking a seat in front of Tobias and ignoring her tearful sister entirely. “We have an arrangement.”
“So, you are stupid.”
“Bold words from a man rotting in a cell.”
“I don’t believe it.” Tobias shook his head.
“There’s no way you can possibly think he’ll share the throne with you.
That he sees you as anything more than a means to an end.
” His intake of breath sent pain lancing through his broken ribs, and he stifled a wince, biting out his words.
“You may hope and pray that it’s true, but deep down you must know it’s a lie.
That you’re being played. The man aims to kill his own daughter yet claims he’ll show you no harm. ”
“I’m different. I’m—”
“Special?” Tobias’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not special at all.”
Cosima’s gaze flashed with anger, though it was brief. She carried herself with poise, but the veil was slipping, and something about that felt like victory. “You underestimate me,” she said. “I have my own power, and I can be very persuasive.”
“I’ve seen your methods of persuasion. The appeal fades rather quickly.”
“And why should I value your opinion? You’re a common man with no understanding of politics, no mind for strategy—”
“Strategy?” Tobias balked. “You reek of desperation. You betrayed the only person in this world who loved you, and you allowed a snake to slither up between your legs, all for that secondhand piece of silver on your head. No, there isn’t a hint of strategy in any decision you’ve made. I almost pity you.”
Her nostrils flared. “Pity me?”
“You are a dog at the feet of your master, performing tricks in hope of a treat. But one day your master will grow tired of you, and he will put you down.”
Cosima spat at his feet, a triumph he hadn’t anticipated. Hatred was the one pure, good sensation he’d felt in ages, and he craved it. Reveled in it.
Orders and vulgarities echoed down the stairwell—Brontes, his anger enough to shake the dungeon around them. Normally his voice would frighten Tobias, but not now.
“Go on then.” Tobias cocked his head toward the stairwell. “Master’s calling.”
Cosima cast him one last glare before standing, situating her dress as she hurried from the dungeon. Something impish flooded Tobias, and he raised his voice.
“So sorry if this meeting didn’t go as you’d intended.”
He leaned back against the bars, his hatred a balm for his wounds.