Chapter 17 #2
The weight of iron drags my arms down. Panic claws at my throat.
I twist to look back. The King and Queen are on their feet now, smiling like statues.
The Queen raises a goblet of dark red wine, toasts me with a glint in her eye, and drinks deep.
My breath shatters in my chest. I am not a guest. I am a prisoner.
The guard doesn’t speak as he drags me through the corridors. The silk of the gown tangles around my legs, useless for walking. His grip is rough, bruising. When we reach a narrow stairwell, he shoves me ahead of him. The iron bites into my wrists with every stumble.
Halfway down, his hands slide over my body—too slow, too deliberate.
My stomach twists. He’s searching for weapons, yes, but the way he does it.
I clench my teeth, frozen, as his palms skim my hips, my thighs, my chest. He finds the pitiful little knife I’d hidden, plucks it from me, and tosses it aside with a grunt.
Shame burns hotter than the shackles around my wrists.
By the time we reach the bottom, I feel stripped of more than steel and magic. He throws me into a cell. I hit the stone hard, my knees scraping raw. The door slams with a clang that shakes through my bones.
I look up—and ice floods my veins. The room is larger than I expected, but not for comfort.
It’s a chamber designed for breaking people—a grate in the floor, with dark stains clinging around it.
Chains dangling from the ceiling are meant to hold arms stretched high until the shoulders tear.
Iron cuffs are bolted to the wall. And at the center, a stone slab—streaked, discolored, proof of whatever bodies have been bound there before me.
I stumble backward until my spine hits the wall.
My breath comes sharp, shallow. This isn’t a cell.
It’s a slaughterhouse. The guard says nothing.
He lingers only a moment, eyes gleaming with something I don’t want to name, then turns and leaves.
The iron door slams, the lock grinds, and I am alone.
My wrists ache. I yank at the shackles, desperate, whispering, “Come on, come on, give me something—give me power.” But the magic is silent.
I drag the chains into the dim light and look closer.
Etched into the iron are glowing patterns—lines, swirls, sigils.
And I know them. I have seen them before…
On my mother’s skin. Her tattoo. The pattern I never understood. The mark she never explained. I stare, heart pounding, as realization crashes over me. What if she had power, and it was bound? Just like mine is now.
Time doesn’t exist down here. It could have been hours or days. There are no windows, no slant of light to mark the passing: just cold stone, the iron bite of the shackles, and the pounding of my heart.
My stomach twists with hunger, but the memory of those pitiful snacks upstairs feels like it belongs to another life. Even if someone put food in front of me now, I don’t know if I could eat. The sickness of fear sits too high in my throat.
I pace the cell barefoot, the stone floor icy under my skin.
My shoes are still upstairs. I never had time to put them on before they dragged me away.
Each step scrapes, stings. I tug at the shackles, over and over, even though I already know.
The glowing patterns etched in the iron pulse faintly in the dark, the same design my mother once bore on her skin.
Every time I look at them, my chest tightens, my thoughts swirling frantically.
My mother had power, and it was bound, same as mine.
It’s the only explanation I can come up with right now.
But how did I break free of it the first time?
Finally Manifesting at twenty-one. That was when it all changed.
That’s why she was trying urgently to tell me everything that night.
She knew my power was about to finally reveal itself.
But can I force it again? Can I make the power surge through me until these bonds crack?
I close my eyes, try to reach inward, but it’s like ramming into a locked door. The flame is gone, suffocated. I am helpless.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to warm against the freezing air—the dress clings, thin and filthy. My hair’s falling loose, strands sticking to my face. I curl up in the farthest corner from the iron door, knees drawn to my chest, staring at the grated window in it. Waiting.
And then the anger creeps in. This is unnecessary.
Petty. Cruel. If they think I’m dangerous, fine—lock me in my chamber, post guards at the door.
But to drag me down here, barefoot and half-dressed, and throw me in filth while they sit upstairs in their crowns and jewels, sipping wine, eating feasts?
I grit my teeth. They’re laughing, dining, while I freeze in the dark. Toasting each other’s cleverness while I’m left like a rat in a cage. It’s not just fear that burns in me now. It’s rage.
The hours stretch on. My throat aches with dryness. My stomach has stopped growling and settled into a sick, hollow ache. Then—scrape.
The sound jolts me. A slot at the base of the door slides open, and someone shoves a tin cup of water and a hunk of bread through it.
No words. Just the clang of the slot shutting again.
I lunge for them. My hands are clumsy in the shackles, but I manage.
The bread is stale, the water metallic, but I tear into both like a starving animal.
Halfway through, the thought hits me—what if it’s poisoned?
I freeze, chewing slowly, heart pounding. If it is, then I’ve already swallowed it. If it isn’t, then I need this food. Either way, it’s too late now. I force the rest down, washing every crumb down with the last drops of water. Nothing happens. No dizziness, no searing pain.
I lean back against the wall. Relief sighs through me. At least they don’t want me dead. Not yet.
The hours stretch until my body aches with stillness. My skin crawls from the cold. I have no sense of day and night. Only stone. Only silence. Then—footsteps. The door clanks open, and two men step inside. Trepidation spikes through my body.
The King, still draped in black finery, his silver crown gleaming faintly even in the gloom. And beside him? A hulking brute in a leather apron, gloves pulled high over his arms. For protection… From blood. I feel it drain from my face.
The door slams shut behind them. The King doesn’t so much as glance at the filth or chains. With a flick of his fingers, a chair appears from thin air—polished, cushioned, utterly out of place in this dungeon. He sits with elegance, like we’re about to discuss court gossip instead of pain.
“Apologies for my tardiness, Miss Donovan,” he says smoothly. “I had much to tend to since my return. You understand.”
My voice breaks through before I can stop it, sharp with anger. “No. Actually, I don’t. Why am I being held down here like a prisoner? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
His smile sharpens. “Well—that’s what we are here to determine. Abaddon, let’s relieve our guest of those shackles.”
The brute lumbers forward. Scars slash down the left side of his head and face, ugly ridges that cost him an eye. In its place gleams a glass orb, the iris glowing red like an ember. He looks at me the way a butcher eyes livestock.
The iron cuffs fall away with a clang, and relief surges through me. My magic should come rushing back, filling my veins, roaring to life. It doesn’t—the void yawns inside me, silent and empty. I gasp, dizzy.
The King leans forward in his chair, watching me with a serpentine smile. “Ahhh, yes. You’ve noticed. We can’t have any of that magic in here. Otherwise, what’s stopping you from opening a portal and slipping away before I’ve even had my fun?”