Chapter 37 An utioner’s Blade
An executioner’s blade
ZARA
The cold sears through me, sharper than the jagged blade Malric drags along my arm.
Blood pools in rivulets, staining the rusted table beneath me.
Pain blooms in bursts, white-hot and electric, but I refuse to scream.
My body shakes, each muscle taut as a bowstring, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s breaking me.
“You’re stubborn,” Malric murmurs, his voice a silken snarl.
His fingers, long and skeletal, press into the wound, digging deep. My vision blurs, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
“Kade won’t save you.” His breath reeks of decay, sour and cloying. “You’ve been abandoned, Zara. Left to rot in the earth, like the rest of your pitiful coven.”
The mention of my coven hits harder than the torture, despite everything they’ve done to me. Malric’s using physical and psychological pain to torture me, and the asshole’s skilled at it, drawing out my agony as he tries to break me.
He circles the table like a predator savoring the kill, dragging sharp claws along my skin.
It’s not enough to slice, but it is enough to sting.
The light in the chamber flickers, shadows licking the walls as though feeding on my suffering.
He stops at my side, the rhythmic drip of my blood onto the floor the only sound besides my shallow breaths.
“You know what I love about pain?” Malric muses, his tone light and conversational. “It’s a language everyone understands. No lies, no subterfuge. Just truth, stripped bare. Shall we discover yours?”
He holds up a thin blade; the edge glinting wickedly in the dim light.
Before I can brace myself, he drives a blade into my thigh, slow and deliberate.
My muscles seize, the pain detonating like a bomb, radiating outward in hot waves that overwhelm me.
A strangled noise escapes my throat, but I swallow the scream before it leaves my lips.
This is my line, this is the fight raging between us, and I will not let him win it easily.
The blade slides free, and for a moment, relief pulses through me and then the pain reignites as Malric presses his palm against the wound and the head of his magic singes the raw flesh. Tears run down my face before I can stop them and my body convulses as the pain consumes me.
I pant, inhaling the sickening, acrid air that reeks with the stench of charred skin.
Malric laughs, the sound low and depraved. “Pain is a universal language, Zara. Give me what I want and it will end.”
I spit at him, the blood and saliva splattering across his face.
“Go to hell,” I rasp, my voice shredded and raw.
His smile sharpens, all teeth and malice. “Oh, little witch. We’re already there.”
Malric steps away, retrieving a vial of some dark viscous liquid from a nearby table.
He holds it up, swirling the contents as though admiring fine wine.
The liquid catches the dim light, its surface thick and sluggish, like tar mixed with blood.
It oozes against the glass, clinging as though eager to escape.
A faint, malevolent shimmer ripples through it as if it’s alive with unadulterated malice.
Malric’s eyes flick between me and the glass container, his lips curling into a grotesque semblance of a smile.
He uncorks the vial, the sharp, putrid scent of its contents filling the air.
It’s a mix of decay and something metallic, something alive.
It’s wicked and it’s vile, and his thumbs prick as he tilts it toward me.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, his tone almost playful. “It’s an old recipe. A little blackthorn root, a touch of hemlock, and just the right amount of your own blood. It binds to the soul, Zara, and amplifies every ounce of pain. Every nerve in your body will feel as if it’s aflame.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to show fear, but the dread coils deep in my stomach, an insidious thing. He steps closer, his skeletal fingers brushing along my cheek with mock gentleness. I almost shudder, but manage to stop myself from showing the sign of weakness he’s looking for.
“You’ll scream,” he whispers, his voice a promise. “And when you do, I’ll be there to savor it.”
I thrash against the restraints, the metal biting into my wrists and ankles, but it’s no use.
He tilts the vial, pouring the liquid over my forearm.
At first, it’s cold, almost soothing, but then it seeps into my skin, igniting something deeper.
The burn starts slowly, a dull ache that builds and builds until it’s an inferno.
It’s not pain.
It’s annihilation.
I arch off the table, every nerve singing a symphony of sorrow as they spark and snap under the relentless agony.
The liquid seeps into my veins like molten fire, a thousand tiny needles piercing through me, shredding muscle and bone with their venomous touch.
My scream claws at my throat, desperate for release, but I bite down hard, my teeth grinding against the raw taste of iron.
The flames inside me twist and churn, racing through my limbs like wildfire, consuming every fragment of my will.
My vision fractures, splitting into jagged, surreal shards where the flickering light of the chamber bends and stretches, mocking me.
The stench of my own burning flesh rises again and its acerbic tang lodges inside my lungs until every breath feels like inhaling glass.
Malric’s laughter cuts through the haze, its low, serpentine sound full of triumph and glee.
“There’s the truth beneath your facade, Zara. Pain does more than strip you bare, little witch. It shows you what you really are.”
The vial slips from his fingers and shatters on the ground, the remnants of the liquid pooling in dark rivulets that slither across the stone floor, as if alive.
I can barely focus on him as he looms over me, his skeletal hands reaching out to tilt my chin upward.
His touch is cruelly gentle, a mockery of comfort, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“You think you’re strong,” he murmurs, his breath hot and foul against my face. “But you’re breaking, little by little. Soon, you’ll beg me to stop.”
I force a laugh, brittle and rasping. “You’ll die waiting.”
His expression hardens, the amusement vanishing, replaced by something darker, colder. “We’ll see.”
Malric turns away, but the fire in my veins doesn’t ebb.
It climbs higher, licking at the edges of my sanity.
My body convulses against the restraints, the metal cutting into my flesh, slick with blood.
Each jolt of pain is a thousand tiny deaths, but I cling to one thought, fragile and luminous in the storm of torment: I will not give him the satisfaction of my surrender.
I close my eyes, summoning the faces of my coven as a shield, hoping they won’t betray me a second time.
The specters of my sisters stand beside me, and their voices echo faintly in my mind, fragmented and dissonant, whispering words of survival and perseverance.
Theirs is a world of heartbreak and suffering, of continual disappointment and dissatisfaction.
They didn’t break and they barely bowed, and now I must do the same.
Kade’s voice joins their chorus; a distant hum that sounds like a battle cry. His touch is a ghost that tells me to hold on, insisting that this isn’t the end.
The fire shifts, deepening, changing. It’s more than destruction and its devastation sweeps through me. My magic stirs, strangely sluggish and reluctant, a spark in the abyss that might not be enough. I bite back a cry as I seize it, pulling it to me like a lifeline.
Malric pauses, sensing the shift. His eyes narrow as he turns and there’s a flicker of something other than sadistic glee in his expression.
Fear.
It’s faint, but it’s there.
It’s a hairline crack in Malric’s unshakable armor and I latch onto it with everything I have.
My magic is slow, listless from the poison and pain, but it’s moving now, crawling through me like a wounded animal seeking refuge.
I force it to respond, whipping it into a flurry as the whispers of desperation grow louder and I step back from the verge of failure.
“What are you doing, Zara?” Malric’s voice, sharp with suspicion, slices through the haze of my agony.
I don’t answer. I can’t. Every ounce of focus is on the flicker of power within me, coaxing it to life, feeding it with the anger and pain that surge in waves.
My body trembles as I force it to respond.
My magic has always been wild, untamed, but it’s mine.
And Malric doesn’t get to take that from me.
He moves faster now, his bony fingers wrapping around my throat, cutting off my air. His grip tightens, but the fire inside me burns hotter. I choke on his hold, but the flicker in my veins flares, refusing to be extinguished.
“Stop this, or I will make you regret it.”
“Do your worst,” I manage, my voice a ragged whisper.
Malric’s crimson eyes narrow, but that crack I’ve opened widens. His confidence falters. He’s used to breaking his prey, not watching them burn brighter under his torture. My magic surges again, no longer a spark but a wave, and this time, I slip into its current.
The heat intensifies, spreading outward.
My skin tingles, and the scent of burnt flesh shifts, replaced by a sharp and electric smell that overpowers the death and decay in the chamber.
The restraints around my wrists and ankles glow red-hot, then melt away with a hiss.
Malric stumbles back, his hand snapping away from my throat as if scalded.
“What have you done?” His voice rises, cracking with panic.
I sit up slowly, my body screaming in protest, but my magic roars louder. The pain is still there, sharp and unrelenting, but it fuels me now. It’s a part of me, a weapon I’ve forged in his fire. I plant my feet on the cold stone floor, unsteady but standing, and meet Malric’s gaze.
The shadows on the wall draw back, and the faces hiding in their blackness turn away in fear.
The flickering candlelight bursts into brilliance as my magic explodes outward.
It isn’t dull or lifeless anymore, it’s alive.
It’s a storm unleashed from the depths of my soul and the arm Malric raises to shield his eyes fails to protect him.
“What are you doing?” he cries.
An icy draft curls through the chamber, carrying with it the subtle scent of iron and an elusive darkness. Malric stiffens, his skeletal fingers pausing mid-motion and his gaze snaps to one of the corners of the chamber.
“You came,” he drawls, a note of tension beneath his smirk.
The shadows cling together, rippling with a life of their own, as a figure emerges from them and his boots echo against the uneven stone floor.
Galen’s silhouette emerges, sharp and commanding, his cloak trailing behind him like spilled ink.
His dark eyes gleam in the dim light and for a brief, treacherous moment, relief flutters through my chest.
“You’ve been busy,” he says, his voice smooth and cool, laced with mockery. “Playing with your dinner.”
Malric chuckles, low and venomous. “And you’ve been skulking in the shadows, as always. What’s your game this time, Galen? Surely you haven’t come to play some more?”
Galen’s eyes flicker to mine, making an ice-cold blade twist through my gut. There’s no warmth there, only calculation. Only greed and the hunger for power.
“I’m done playing with witches,” he says evenly.
The cold finality of Galen’s words strikes me like a blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
For a moment, the blood weave trembles, a fragile thread stretched thin as Galen smirks, raising an eyebrow as he stares at me.
My thoughts whirl and his grin grows wider as he watches me work out the truth that’s been staring me in the face.
“It was you,” I breathe. “You were the warlock my coven sold me to.”
Galen’s grin remains fixed and his voice cuts through me like a blade. “You’re not stupid after all. Pity. It might have been easier to control you.”
“You were always going to kill them, weren’t you?”
Galen steps closer, his silhouette cutting through the oppressive dimness like a predator stalking its prey.
“They were weak. Blind to the power they could have wielded. And you?” His smirk twists, cruel and mocking. “You were the key to unraveling it all.”
The blood weave surges again, and Kade’s presence feels like a distant heartbeat, faint but steady. I cling to it like a lifeline, even as Galen’s words threaten to pull me under.
“Why?” I ask.
Galen doesn’t reply immediately. Instead, his gaze sweeps over me, dissecting, calculating. His eyes are dark, fathomless voids that drink in the dim light, leaving no trace of humanity behind. The flicker of fear I saw in Malric’s face moments ago now churns in my chest.
“She’s stronger than you let on,” Galen remarks, his voice deep, cold, and resonant, like the reverberation of a struck bell. His tone carries no praise, only an idle observation, as though he’s noting the durability of a tool he intends to shatter. “Stronger than I’d hoped she’d be.”
“She won’t be for much longer,” Malric assures him.
Galen steps closer, the shadows clinging to him like loyal hounds. His presence is a curse, all silence and suffocation, and unrelenting pressure that wraps around my chest like a vise. He stops just short of the broken table, his towering frame casting me in his shadow.
He tilts his head slightly, the motion almost curious, before crouching to meet my gaze.
The room seems to shrink around him, the oppressive atmosphere thickening until my every breath feels like dragging knives through my lungs.
His hand extends toward me, not to strike, but to hover just above my temple, the heat of his palm igniting my skin like a brand.
“Malric enjoys games,” he continues, his tone almost conversational, though the words scrape at the edges of my sanity.
“But I’m not here to play. You’ll give us what we want or you’ll wish for death.
Either way, you’ll break, Zara. The only question is how much pleasure I will take from your suffering. ”
“I won’t break,” I bite out, defiance laced through every syllable, though my voice trembles under the strain.
Galen’s lips curve into a faint smile, devoid of mirth. He straightens, his figure looming over me like an executioner’s blade.
“Your coven said that,” he says, turning to Malric. “Every one of them swore they wouldn’t break until they did. And Zara, they begged me to make it quick. Every single one of them.”