Chapter Twenty-Seven #2
“He thought to raise a pet mage. Instead, he raised a disobedient whelp. Someone who used the power he gave them to reap wealth for themself.”
Wealth? A dry, wheeze escaped Valerian’s gag. I’ve given you every coin I can spare.
A hand grabbed Valerian’s hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to look Maksim in the eye. The pose left his throat exposed. It would have been so easy for Maksim to slit it, to end their conversation with blood. But that would be a waste of an investment. “What are you laughing at?”
The sound Valerian made only partially resembled the word “You.”
The flames of anger in Maksim’s eyes sparked to new heights. He shoved Valerian’s head back down as if he couldn’t stand to look at him.
Make up your damn mind. Do you want me to look at you or obediently bow my head? Valerian needed to know what Maksim wanted so he could properly defy him.
“You ran rather than pay your debt to my father. That was my mistake. I should have incapacitated you before you ever had the chance. I hesitated because a whole mage is worth more than a broken one, and because I naively thought you understood your position and your obligations.”
The cold, flat side of a blade caressed the back of Valerian’s neck. The sharp edge prodded his flesh without breaking skin.
“I’ve learned my lesson. A broken mage is worth more than no mage at all.”
The angle of the blade shifted. With one, swift cut, Maksim split open the back of Valerian’s shirt. The air was cold and sharp against his exposed skin.
“First, I’ll remind you where you came from. What you have always been to me.” A familiar crack followed Maksim’s words as he snapped a leather whip in the air. “Someone to punish.”
It’d been decades since Valerian had felt the sting of a whip against his skin. He bit down on the gag and suppressed the instinctive cry of pain. He’d suffered through it hundreds of times before, he could withstand it again now. It would take more than this to break him.
After the fourth lash, he fell into old habits, counting each one. Five … twelve … seventeen … He could have stopped or lost his way at any point, could have shied away from the pain, fallen into the depths of oblivion. He kept counting every single strike.
Twenty-two …
Thirty-one …
Forty-eight …
Forty-nine—his thoughts ground to a halt when the next lash didn’t land. His head dangled limply, too heavy to hold up. The flat end of the whip’s handle—coated in sweat and blood—touched his chin and lifted his head up so he could look at Maksim.
“What do you know,” Maksim drawled, “you’re still good at your old job.”
For the first time, Valerian wished he’d studied curses instead of transformation.
He would have let the dark magic taint every inch of his soul if it meant becoming the master of Maksim’s misery.
It’s no wonder someone cursed your father—you both deserve it.
Only muffled sounds escaped the gag when Valerian tried to speak.
“I’m tempted to remove this to hear your pleas for mercy,” Maksim said, slipping one finger between the fabric and Valerian’s cheek. “But I won’t give you a chance to cast any spells on me.”
Maksim stood and placed a hand on Valerian’s shoulder, digging the tips of his fingers into the lacerations on his back.
“Now that you remember your proper place, we can get to the real work of breaking you down and remaking you into an obedient servant. You’ll need your eyes to see, of course—can’t have you mixing up ingredients.
As much as I’d like to take your tongue, you’ll also need it to speak any spells.
Your hands are probably the most important, so I’ll keep those intact.
But you know, I can’t think of a damned reason why you need legs.
All they’ve ever done is helped you run. ”
Maksim walked away. Valerian didn’t lift his head to try to see what he was doing, just allowed it to remain limp, chin resting against his chest. From this position, he could see Maksim’s boots when he returned, and the axe held low at his side.
“How to go about this,” Maksim murmured.
“I need a proper angle …” He circled around Valerian.
What he hadn’t accounted for in his threats was that Valerian’s current position had most of his weight resting on his legs.
He tried to shift Valerian up and away, but he wasn’t the same skinny boy he’d been decades ago.
He’d fought for his life alongside Arnsveldian soldiers, learned how to exercise his body to gain more muscle mass.
Maksim used to be taller and stronger than him, but now they were of a similar height, and Maksim had spent his years tending to an estate rather than his body.
Valerian focused on being a dead weight while Maksim struggled. Even as his own weight and gravity pulled on his arms, stretching them until they ached, Valerian bided his time.
In the end, Maksim couldn’t keep Valerian tied and carry out his threat at the same time. Maksim cursed and finally reached for the ropes binding Valerian’s left hand to the post, probably thinking that releasing his non-dominant hand was the safer bet.
It took two hands to untie the rope. Maksim dropped the axe while he worked. After several minutes, the knots loosened.
Valerian shoved Maksim, sending him stumbling several feet away, and snatched the axe up from the ground. Maksim lunged toward him to take the axe back.
It was a gamble to throw the only weapon he had, but right now, Valerian was a betting man. The axe flew through the air—
Slick blood dripped onto Valerian’s hand, staining the sleeve of his nightshirt.
He stared up into the unfamiliar face of a man looming over his bed. Valerian’s blade was buried deep in the stranger’s belly, an act of self-preservation while he’d slept.
This isn’t the right dead man. Even as Valerian realized the change, his body went through the motions. Pushing the corpse away with a wet squelch as it slid off his dagger. Repeating the same scenes in a play.
He searched the body, found the bounty poster.
The more he followed the script, the more his awareness, that sense of wrongness, slipped away.
He packed his bags.
He ran.
He fell into the trap again.