Chapter 17 #3
“Goodbye, Corentin Maroux. Let no one remember your name.” I put my weight behind the dagger and feel it slide all the way into his skull, breaking through bone. He stops moving almost instantly. I stand up and take a deep breath before looking down at the man who had enjoyed my pain so much.
As a precaution, I slide the dagger through his ribs and pierce his heart.
Every Priest knows piercing the heart is the only way to be sure you kill any of the magical beings.
Godforged and Fae both can heal from incredibly grievous wounds that no human could survive.
Even dragons will die if you pierce their hearts, though I don’t know what kind of terrible weapon could do that.
I pull the dagger out and wipe it on Corentin’s robes before sliding it back into its sheath. I wince as I pull up my pants. They press against the long gash in my thigh that’s still bleeding heavily. “It’s been a long time since I wanted a Lizard this badly.”
I dig through my cloak to find the right pocket and drink the swirling green and brown liquid.
It will take time to heal all these wounds, but with as much of the night as is left, my wounds should be almost completely healed by dawn.
Nothing is more than a surface wound. The fragility that comes with the Lizard makes my bones ache, but that’s something I’ve become very used to, and I ignore it.
Then, I face the door that Corentin walked through, and prepare for others that might respond to his screams. I’m surprised no one else has followed him, but then again, if my torturer was to be believed, maybe no one expected him to have any problems. Maybe there aren’t any reinforcements.
Nyxthos was sure enough of my bondage that he left my daggers on me rather than with my bow and quiver in a pile against the wall.
There are no sounds of boots on the stone. It’s silent as though there isn’t anyone else here at all.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I think I’m safe. I put my wrap back on and already feel better. The buckles on my breastplate lock into place as they should be, but the cut down my tunic will be harder to fix. “Burn it all,” I mutter.
The steel wires, which had run all over my body, broke when I pulled away from the cross. The fragments litter the stone floor. This room had been one of violence only a few moments ago, but now it feels almost peaceful, like the darkness of this world might hide more than violence and fear.
It whispers to me, almost begging me to let go of my worries. I refuse its siren call. How did that tiny blemish in the steel come to be? I’m safe, but how? A shadow nicked that steel, but who could have done it? No one else was in the room.
I move to the crossed steel bars that had held me.
The leather cords lay on the ground where they’d fallen, the rough cuts apparent.
I focus on the bar I’d rubbed the leather against. The metal is smooth enough that I’d never have been able to cut through them, except for that tiny notch that had saved me.
The edges of the cut have curled outward, and when I run my finger over it, it feels no different from my dagger edge, sharp as any razor.
I pick up the leather that lies on the ground, and look from the leather to the notch in the steel. I know what I saw, but I don’t understand how it happened. Is it possible that I was so terrified of being discovered that my mind played tricks on me?
No. A shadow cut through that metal. Whatever else I find doesn’t matter. That tiny blade of shadow freed me. But how?
Azric. He’s the only reasonable answer I can come up with.
He told me he needs me to win, to survive.
If anyone was going to help me, it’d be him, and it was a shadow that made that notch which saved my life.
I don’t understand how he did it, but then again, I don’t know how Ainslee caught lightning either.
The powers of the champions aren’t clear to me.
I feel my shoulders hunch, but I don’t say a word.
Nyxthos may know my secrets, but something tells me I shouldn’t let him know what I saw.
Ainslee said she couldn’t protect me, so I really doubt Azric should be helping me to survive a trial or keep my secrets—secrets I’m sure Nyxthos wants exposed.
“Well, I guess all there is to do now is sit and wait until morning.” I glance down at my tunic flapping with every movement and exposing my armor to the world. “That just isn’t acceptable,” I mutter.
I sit on the floor in front of Corentin’s body and unlace his boot. I pull my tunic over my head and use my dagger as a terrible awl to make small holes on either side of the cut the bastard made in it. Then I slip my arms back into it and lace it up no differently than I would a boot.
“Now, there’s nothing else to do. Too bad Darian’s not here to play a few rounds of Khorra,” I mutter.
The truth of the matter is that I know I wasn’t supposed to kill Corentin.
Every other competitor will be tortured for the entire night, and by the time I arrive in the Great Hall, my wounds will be mostly healed.
They’re going to be furious. I won’t complain about missing a night of excruciating pain, but if word gets out that I somehow cheated my way through this trial, I doubt anyone will be happy about it. It’s going to put a target on my back.
What else was I supposed to do, though? I know I haven’t broken any rules, and officially, no one will be able to do anything about it. But I just did the one thing that Darian told me not to do.
Maybe we can use it to our advantage, though. I hope so, at least. I begin preparing a story for when I’m inevitably asked how I managed to escape my torture. The last thing I need is to be caught in questions by other competitors or champions that I don’t have acceptable answers to.