40. Well, fuck me
WELL, FUCK ME
MAKSYM
I’d made a mistake. Two, actually, if I felt like humbling myself any more than I already had.
My first was letting myself cling to the belief Odessa had not struck some nefarious deals, securing access to magic that would see our millennia of upper hand utterly leveled.
The second mistake I’d made was not caring to remember how agonizing bright iron was. I’d just been stabbed with a fucking dagger made of it, after all, and still had the slowly healing wound in my side, so one might wonder why that slipped my mind with such ease.
Well, the answer was simple. Being stabbed by well-forged bright iron and being bound by it were two wildly unique experiences, as I unfortunately knew firsthand.
Now, bands of the miserable ore sat shackled around my wrists and ankles, and barbs of it dug into my flesh with every exhausted shift of my body, leeching my magic and severing its connection to my body.
I’d been sick more times than I could count already, and I gave up on avoiding the splatters of vomit with my bare feet as I swayed, chained from the roof of a dank cell carved from gray stone.
Between the constant throbs of agony from my wings, drooping from my back and littered with sunburn blisters, and the weeping wound in my calf courtesy of a ballista bolt impalement, how I’d kept any measure of consciousness was beyond my grasp.
I wished my mind would take me under, even for a minute, give me the moment of rest my body desperately needed if I wanted to have a chance of surviving long enough for anything meaningful to happen.
But something deep in my subconscious must have known what was coming and kept clinging to that wavering strand, putting up a fight awfully reminiscent of the blonde-haired spitfire who must’ve been furious with me by now.
My cell door let out an echoing clank as its lock turned over, and I fought my head up.
Odessa’s pissant boy king strode in, garbed from his chin to his fingertips like a cleric and flanked by two rows of armed guards. Cute.
He fixed me with his murky brown eyes, and his lip curled in distaste.
“What a welcome,” I rasped with what little voice I had left before I spat bloody saliva on the floor. “You’ve outdone yourself, boy.”
“It would behoove you to choose your words carefully.”
I barked out a laugh that was agonizing to my battered body. “What? Here, among friends?”
The king’s features narrowed. “You have nothing of the sort here.”
“Oh, I see.” I had to clear a nasty mix of bile and blood from my throat. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
A vein popped on his glossy forehead, and he bit out, “Speak plainly.”
I gave a thoughtful hum. “I suppose you were quite young the last time I was shackled here.” His eyes widened. “But I look forward to getting acquainted again, boy.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN…
OF CURSES AND CONQUEST
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