Agony and Torment
GAbrIEL
Earlier in the day
Asteady, throbbing pain in my arm has been bothering me for days. Heat rushes beneath the skin, a warning that something is wrong. The stones on which I lie are cool, but they don’t provide relief. It’s as if my skin isn’t fitting right over my frame.
I peel my eyes open, groaning. The stone walls of my cell mock me, reminding me that I’m trapped and alone. My tormentors are gone, but there is no doubt in my mind they will return.
Iron manacles bind my hands and feet, and chains connect them to the floor. I have enough room to maneuver to the chamber pot, but that’s it.
When I still had energy, I tested the chains’ limits, but I’m too tired for that now.
When was the last time they brought me food?
Two visits ago? Maybe three. I’ve lost count.
They come and go, never leaving me alone for more than a few hours at a time.
Depriving me of sleep is another method of torture, and they’re using it to their advantage.
For now, I stare at the iron bars of my cell and wait. Wait for my captors to return. Wait for the torment to begin anew.
A lantern hangs on a hook outside my cell, laughably out of reach. Its flickering light is all I can see, and I focus on it as recent events pass through my mind.
A few days ago—or maybe a week; I’ve been having trouble keeping track of time—I woke up in a cell surrounded by four warriors. The group, comprised of three men and a woman, didn’t have a shred of kindness between them.
They’d stared at me in silence, their faces blank slates, until the door to my stone cell opened behind them. And when they parted, revealing a scowling Cedric Stone, the prisoner I once hunted, ice had swept through my veins.
Stone’s black hair was longer than when I’d hunted him, and he sported a new bump across the bridge of his nose as though it had been broken and reset, but his tattoo was the same, as was the hatred in his eyes.
I’d done it—I’d found the rebels. Cedric’s presence was proof of that. For a moment, I’d felt nothing but relief. This was what I’d wanted. These people would take care of Wren, keep her away from the king as she learned her magic.
I hoped she would be welcomed here. But me, on the other hand . . .
The moment I looked into Cedric’s eyes, I knew there would be no safety for me here. There had always been a chance seeking this group would be dangerous and they wouldn’t take kindly to my presence, but I’d risked it for Wren.
Cedric had smiled, his eyes cold and calculating, and he crouched in front of me. “Hello, Hunter,” he said icily, playing with a dagger. “Did you miss me?”
I hadn’t replied—there was no point. The look in Cedric’s eyes, the way his fingers formed a fist, and the weapons the others held all told the same story: What came next would be a lesson in agony and torment.
And I’d been right. Gods be with me, I’d never been more right about anything in my life.
The next few days were a blur of endless interrogations, painful interruptions, and pure agony. My tormentors had given me bits of food and sips of water, enough to keep me going, but never enough to strengthen me.
They knew who I was and what I did for the Ruby Crown. They wanted to know why Wren and I were here. Had I sought them out? Was the king searching for them? Why was I traveling with a gods-blessed? Who was she? Where did she come from? Were we spies?
So many fucking questions. They all spun together in my mind.
When I didn’t reply to their satisfaction—or when I downright refused if the answer involved Wren or could potentially endanger her—they hurt me. They inflicted so much pain that even the king would be pleased by their efforts to break me.
Most of the damage will heal, but my arm . . . I glance down at it, wincing. It’s either sprained or broken, but either way, this damage feels more permanent than the rest.
With a sigh, I let my head fall back.
I can handle the physical injuries. They’re not that bad, and I’ve survived worse. For the gods’ sakes, my father has used me as a whipping post for years.
But what I’m not used to, what took me by surprise, is the pain clawing at my soul. This agony is excruciating, coming from the same place that has yearned for Wren ever since I met her.
As minutes became hours, then days, and my interrogators refused to answer my inquiries about Wren, refused to tell me if she was unharmed or even here, panic gnawed inside me. Our connection contorted and grew barbs. It dug into me, insisting that I find her.
And I would have if I hadn’t been chained.
To make matters worse, my bond with Mist is muted. It’s still there—I can sense its threads lingering inside me—but I can’t feel or communicate with her.
I am cut off.
Misery has been brewing inside me, worse than anything Cedric and his friends inflicted upon me.
Footsteps come from outside my cell, yanking me from my thoughts, and I force myself into a sitting position. I’d stand, but I’m not sure my legs will hold my weight. Still, I refuse to meet my captors lying down.
When the footsteps cease, new faces peer into my cell.
“Who are you?” I rasp.
A man with shoulder-length red hair, pale skin, and scruff decorating the lower half of his face inserts a key into the door, but he doesn’t say anything.
The door creaks open. Three others follow, all armed.
“Where is Wren?” I cradle my right arm to my chest as much as the chains will allow and look at each of the newcomers in turn. “The woman I was with. What has been done to her?”
I thought the rebels would help her, but I’m starting to wonder whether coming here was the right plan.
Instead of answering me, the red-haired soldier unlocks my bindings.
“Suns-damn it, talk to me!” I yell as each of the newcomers takes one of the chains attached to my limbs, yanking me to my feet. My legs shake, and I barely remain upright. “Where is she?” The questions pour out of me faster and faster, spurred on by panic. “Is she here? Alive? Tell me something!”
I am coming apart at the edges, each unanswered question causing me to fray even faster.
The red-haired guard seems to consider me, chewing on the inside of his lip before he meets my gaze. The hint of compassion in his eyes has my knees buckling.
Burning fucking suns. Is she dead? Is that why they haven’t told me anything? Did they kill her?
If she died, I will—
“She’s here, and she’s alive,” he says, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
The words are like cool water on a burn. Instant relief. My lungs loosen, and I can breathe.
I thank the redheaded soldier, and he dips his chin in return. I don’t fight as they half drag, half carry me through a dozen torch-lit tunnels, nor do I ask any more questions.
Wren is alive, and that’s all that matters.
We stop in front of a pair of elaborately carved double doors. Torches hang on either side, casting their light over us, and a battle scene I don’t recognize is etched onto the wood.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” snaps one of the guards who has yet to speak. He looks to be around six feet tall with light skin and sandy hair. “You probably won’t live long enough to need the name.”
“You’re an ass, Hector,” says the redheaded soldier before looking over his shoulder at me. “These are our council chambers.”
“Alaric,” Hector hisses.
“Relax,” Alaric says. “The man is in chains, and he’s been in a cell for days. He’s broken and weak. The information will not help him—he is not going anywhere.”
Before Hector can protest further, the doors open, and I’m dragged inside.
Like my cell and the tunnels, there are no windows in this room. Torches burn around the cavernous space, and a larger blaze sits in a sunken firepit in the middle of the floor. The flames are several feet tall, providing adequate lighting and heat.
Hushed murmurs come from around me as the soldiers and I stand in the doorway, but all I can see, all I can focus on, is the beautiful woman sitting near the roaring fire.
“Wren,” I whisper hoarsely.
The longest moment seems to pass before she turns her head. Her lovely violet eyes widen, landing on me, and I swear that relief flickers through them.
“Gabriel,” she breathes.
Suns, I have never heard a better sound. Everything I endured no longer matters. My injuries are inconsequential. I could be bleeding out, but it would all be okay if I could hear her say my name again.
And then her gaze shifts. It slides down my face, to where I’m cradling my arm in front of my chest, to the chains. Wren’s face hardens, and her Mark flares a brilliant blue. Sapphires could only dream of achieving such a luminescent color.
She stands, and my spine stiffens. Manacles circle her wrists, a length of rope lies at the foot of the chair she’d been occupying, and a piece of cloth is on the ground beside her. My eyes narrow, focusing on the dried flakes of blood on her wrists.
Blood, because they hurt her.
A wildfire ignites in me. Fury is a brisk wind, shoving aside the panic and agony from earlier, fanning the flames of my anger.
It was one thing for these people to be cruel to me. I’d always known that was a possibility. I’ve done too much, and I’m too closely connected to the Ruby Crown to think that they wouldn’t care when I entered their lands.
But this.
Wren.
My gods-blessed.
How fucking dare they?
I thought I’d known rage the day I found Wren cornered by sailors in Saltwater, but that has nothing on the way I feel now.
Anger is sharp and bitter at the back of my mouth. For the first time in my life, I am glad I am my father’s son. The fury rushing through my veins and the revenge in my heart are my birthright.
I will find those who hurt Wren, and I will make them pay.
They will feel the pain of what they’ve done to her a hundred times over before I put them out of their misery.
I may lack my father’s magic, but I am not powerless.
I will not rest until every person who drew Wren’s blood regrets the day they hurt her.