3. Sliver Of Hope
Chapter three
Sliver Of Hope
The cold seeps into my skin, the metal table beneath me as unyielding as the chains biting into my wrists and ankles.
My breath comes in short, panicked bursts, but it isn’t enough.
The air is too thick, too stale, tainted with the metallic tang of blood, my blood.
I pull against the restraints, knowing it’s useless.
The iron cuts deeper, slicing into my skin, a cruel reminder that there is no escape.
“Awake already?” a voice muses, smooth and taunting. “Good. It’s no fun if you sleep through it.”
A second voice chuckles in agreement, low and cruel. “She’ll scream for us soon enough.”
The clatter of metal sends a sharp spike of dread through me.
My stomach twists as one of them unrolls a sleeve of tools—glinting, wicked things designed to carve flesh apart with deliberate precision.
Blades honed to razor edges, hooks meant for tearing, needles so fine they could slip between muscle and bone.
Fingers trail over the collection, deliberate and savoring. “Let’s start small,” the first male says, selecting a thin scalpel. “No need to rush the fun.”
I barely have time to brace before the first cut comes, slicing clean and shallow across my forearm. A gasp catches in my throat, but I refuse to give them the reaction they want.
He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Tsk. You’re holding back.”
The blade presses deeper before twisting.
A ragged scream tears from my lips as white-hot agony flares through my arm. Blood wells up, warm and slick, spilling onto the table. My body convulses against the chains, but the more I fight, the more they bite into me, unrelenting.
“There it is,” the second male murmurs, stepping closer. Magic pulses in his hands, black veins of energy slithering up his arms, writhing like hungry things desperate to burrow beneath my skin.
I barely have a second to breathe before he slams his palm against the fresh wound.
Fire explodes through my veins where his touch lands.
It isn’t just pain, it is something deeper, more insidious, magic forcing itself into me, spreading like a disease. It slithers through muscle, wrapping around bone, burrowing into my very marrow, searching.
I choke on my scream.
“She’s resisting,” the first male observes, his amusement palpable. “She still thinks she can fight it.”
Another blade. This one is lower, my ribs. The cold metal slides torturously slowly between them with sickening ease, cutting through sinew and scraping against bone.
“Tell me,” the second male murmurs as his fingers press firmly into my arm, sending another surge of burning magic through me. “How long do you think before she breaks?”
The first male gives the blade a slow, deliberate twist.
My scream shatters the air, raw and hoarse, ripped from the deepest part of me. My body arches violently, every nerve alight with searing torment. Their magic inside me coils and writhes, slithering through my insides like molten poison, scorching a path through every vein, every fiber of my being.
Their laughter rings in my ears.
“More,” one of them whispers, leaning close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin. “We’re just getting started.”
“Come now,” the second male coaxes, his fingers pressing deeper, forcing the magic further inside me. It slithers like a living thing, clawing through my insides, spreading agony through every place it touches. “Scream for us.”
I jolt awake with a strangled gasp, my body drenched in sweat, clothes clinging to me like a second skin.
My chest heaves, lungs dragging in ragged, desperate breaths that do nothing to shake the phantom pain still coiling beneath my skin.
Every nerve burns, every limb trembles, as if the blades were still inside me, still peeling me apart, searching for the secret to my magic, testing how they could take it before I shatter completely.
My fingers curl into the sheets, gripping them like a lifeline, but the moment I touch the fabric, all I feel is cold metal shackles, the slab beneath me, and the press of leather and iron digging into my flesh.
A sob catches in my throat, my body shaking uncontrollably.
The laughter of my tormentors still echoes in my skull.
I know every cadence, every shift in tone, every sneer and glint of amusement when I fought, the cruel delight when I screamed.
For a century, it was the same few faces.
Never changing, only rotating, always knowing exactly where to cut, how to break me without ending me.
Their hands memorized my body, and their knives carved their names into my soul.
And when my body refused to mend fast enough, they called in the healer, not to save me, never to ease my pain, only to drag me back from the brink of death so they could begin again.
Their presence still looms over me, clinging to the edges of my sanity, seeping into every quiet moment, every stretch of stillness. Their voices slither through the cracks of my armor, whispering in the spaces between sleep and wakefulness. You are ours to unmake. To break. To perfect.
Their desperation to please the king is fueling them to be the one who finally stole my magic.
Forever creative in their methods, tearing me open, trying to find a way to strip it from me, to force it into hands that have no right to wield it.
But no matter how many times they’d cut into me, bleed me dry, or burned me from the inside out, my magic was still mine, fractured and twisted, but still mine.
I press a trembling hand to my chest, trying to ground myself in the present, but the past refuses to loosen its grip.
As I push myself upright, my body still trembling, I force the memories back into the depths of my mind. But the ghosts they left behind refuse to fade. I force myself to stand, desperate for a distraction.
The first few days have been quiet, almost peaceful in a way.
For a short time, I allow myself to believe I am just .
. . resting, recovering, but as the days go on, they begin to blur together, each one folding into the next in this strange, silent prison.
The cabin has become both a haven and a cage, small and yet oddly comforting.
Food appears daily, fresh and warm, and simple, soft clothes replace the tattered remnants of my old attire.
After a while, the quiet starts pressing in on me.
I’m not used to being alone like this. The solitude has become a presence in and of itself, crawling under my skin, pulling at me in ways I don’t know how to fight.
The stillness amplifies every thought, every memory I’m not ready to face.
It gives my thoughts room to expand, room to remember the faces of the people I have lost, the sound of my mother’s laughter, the warmth of my father’s touch.
It reminds me of everything and everyone I couldn’t save.
Another constant reminder that I’m still a captive and need to escape.
I need to find my people, whatever is left of them.
I need to help rebuild, to fight, to rise against the ashes of the world that has been destroyed.
But where do I even start? My world is gone, and with it, the life I once knew.
I had a home. My mother, whose laughter wrapped around me and who pressed kisses to my temple when she thought I was asleep.
Her hands smelled of crushed herbs and sun-warmed earth, her voice a melody I never thought I’d forget.
She would hum as she worked, her voice soft, the sound of safety.
My father, who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders yet still lifted me high into the air, who told me stories of warriors and kings, and taught me that strength was not just in the blade but in the heart that wields it.
And my brother, who stood between me and every obstacle, who ruffled my hair even as he scolded me, who swore he would always protect me.
But he wasn’t able to, none of them were.
They are gone. Long dead. Their bones scattered among the ruins of a world I will never get back.
I cling to the hope that someone survived, that something of what we once were still remains.
But hope is a cruel thing, and the years have worn it thin, brittle as their voices echo in my mind.
Stay close, little one. I’ll keep you safe.
All lies now, just memories in a world that moved on without them.
I sit in a small, cushioned chair near the cabin’s window, lost in thought, so consumed by my mind that I could have been there for hours without realizing it.
The window is the only thing that gives me any sense of time in this place.
Each morning, the dim light filters through, breaking the grip of whatever nightmare haunted my sleep the night before.
A constant tangled mess of memories and fears that leaves me waking in a cold sweat.
As the evening approaches and the lights fade, that same window becomes my only indication that another day has passed.
I’ve spent the last few days pacing the cabin, rummaging through every corner in search of something, anything, that can help me escape.
But there is nothing. No weapons, no hidden keys.
The place is bare, spartan, intentionally so.
I haven’t given up, though. There is still hope that something might be hidden, something I can use to fight back.
After hours of searching, all I have found is a handful of old, weathered books on a shelf in the corner, their pages yellowed with age, the titles written in languages I can barely remember. They smell of dust, stories of a forgotten time, of an old Fae kingdom that feels so far removed now.
I turn to the books first, desperate for a distraction.
The more I read, the more I realize how outdated these books are.
They offer no insight into the current state of the world.
Frustration tears at me, and when the pages no longer hold any answers, I seek something else.
The only thing that still seems real, that still feels like a connection to the life I knew—my magic.
It hasn’t abandoned me, at least not completely.
It’s the only thread that ties me to what I once was.
So, I turn to it. Every day, I focus on coaxing the magic back into my hands, letting it flow through me the way it did in the past. But it doesn’t come easily.
It used to be as natural as breathing, but after burying it for so long, it is as if I am starting from scratch, fumbling through something I once knew so well.
I focus on small things. Moving objects around the cabin and summoning the faintest flickers of Fae light, watching as it dances in my hands, glowing softly.
Each time I manage a little more, I feel a sliver of hope, but it is always fragile, always slipping through my fingers.
The very thing that once defined me, that made me who I was, now feels like an alien part of myself.