Chapter 1
The shrieks of the piece of chalk drilled into my eardrums as I dragged the stick over the uneven wall.
An icy shiver ran down my spine, the fine hairs on my arms rose, and goosebumps broke out all over my skin—not only because my surroundings were so cold.
Over the past few days, I’d gotten used to the glacial temperature, and I barely registered anymore how my muscles shivered and trembled.
With my index finger, I traced the eight lines hidden in a far corner of the tiny, damp room, one white stroke after the other.
My cage for the same number of days wasn’t the most pleasant place in Ivreia, to put it mildly. But just as I’d gotten accustomed to freezing, the heavy scent of mildew and misery in the air didn’t bother me anymore.
That I’d found the piece of chalk under the rickety cot I’d woken up on had been pure luck.
After everything I’d seen in the last few days, I considered myself fortunate to have a place to lie down that wasn’t on the stained floor. Of all the unpleasant locations I’d been to in my entire life, this hole was taking the top spot.
I had no idea where I was, only that I was a prisoner of Perran Feroy, the King of Merchants, whose son I’d killed in self-defense.
His hospitality left a lot to be desired—I’d told my guards as much on the first day, and all I’d earned for my honesty had been a slap so hard that my ears had rung for hours.
I wish I could claim this had been the only time—that I’d become wiser, kept my lips sealed—but for every time I’d bitten down on my tongue, two other times my mouth had been faster than my brain.
That the past months of travel and the perpetual company of soldiers had eroded some of the filters I’d placed upon myself when I’d been living in Credenta was painfully apparent to me.
My fingernail caught on the rough wall as I traced the line I’d drawn moments ago, but even when a part tore off and started to bleed, I didn’t so much as flinch.
Its neighbor was missing altogether. Instead, there was a bloody, fleshy mess—the torture master had pulled the nail out yesterday.
In the scope of everything else, I barely acknowledged the lingering pain.
Tracking the days with the help of the chalk was hard enough since the cell I’d been put in was windowless.
My surroundings were dark, and the only light creeping in came from under the cracks of the door, but I didn’t mind.
There wasn’t anything pleasant to look at anyway, and I was rather thankful I couldn’t dwell on analyzing the different kinds of mystery stains on the floor.
My eyes had gotten used to the constant twilight, at least so much that I was able to identify what was right in front of me, like my lines of chalk.
On the downside, every time the guards dragged me out of my cell for interrogation, the bright torchlight outside burned like fire in my vision.
Weathering the almost blinding effect was the only option—at first, when they’d fetched me, I’d made the mistake of closing my eyes while walking, and one of my sadistic jailers had soon tripped me.
Carefully, I hid the piece of chalk in a small hole behind a tiny opening within my cot’s fabric, pushing my treasure in deep. If someone found and confiscated the item, I’d be heartbroken.
Tracking my days was the only thing keeping me sane, or so I told myself.
It was bad enough that the stick shortened a bit every day.
Soon, nothing would be left of the fragment anymore. Or maybe it would because I couldn’t imagine I would last much longer. Compared to me, the chalk had a better chance at survival, and the stick would surely outlive me.
Sometimes, when the door had opened or when I’d been hauled through the corridors, I’d tried to find out more about the dungeons I was kept in.
So far, I hadn’t spotted any other prisoners, but I was sure there were more around.
Yesterday, I’d heard someone sobbing for hours on end. As the sound had been faint but unmistakable, I guessed that whoever had been attempting to come to terms with their situation wasn’t held captive far away from me.
I’d dared to initiate contact after the noise had finally stopped, but two angry guards storming into my cell and tossing me around like a child’s toy had made me regret my tiny act of defiance.
Even though this had been the only time I’d witnessed any sign of someone else being in the same miserable circumstances as me, I had the vague impression that this dungeon was massive.
My stomach growled, but only the gods could tell if and when the wardens would bring some kind of food. If this day turned out like the seven before, I’d go hungry for very much longer.
My host wasn’t starving me, but irregular meals had to be another attempt to wear me down.
When I’d gotten food the last time, the dry bread had been so moldy I couldn’t eat most of the slice.
The moment I’d conquered my disgust and swallowed, the acidic bile in my stomach had revolted and climbed up my throat.
Still, the few bites I’d managed to consume had been enough to leave me with a blistering ache in my belly hours later, and my actions had triggered plenty of regret—the kind only someone whose sole way to relieve oneself was into a bucket that hadn’t been cleaned for gods-know-how-long could understand.
Not that hunger or a faulty digestive system was my biggest problem. Nor were the dozens of cuts and welts all over my skin or the colorful tapestry of bruises that I’d collected during the many interrogations.
Sometimes, the irony of life was baffling.
A few months ago, I’d thought my father’s punishments had been terrible and that nothing could ever be worse. But compared to Feroy’s torture chamber, the touch of Soleth’s cane had been more like a lover’s caress.
Oh no.
Imagining soft touches and intimacy conjured pictures I didn’t want to think about. The memories of tenderness and false safety were almost more painful than all the torture during the past week, and so I dragged my lazy mind back to taking inventory of my sufferings.
But before I could dwell on the more serious injuries littering my body, the door to my prison opened.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rose, and my breath caught. I couldn’t hinder my skin from pebbling or any of the other unpleasant sensations running rampant through me as I recognized my captor.
My eyes dilated, not only because of the sudden brightness but also because Perran Feroy himself had stepped into my cell. He hadn’t graced me with his presence since he’d drugged me outside Amalach, and honestly, I wished this streak would have continued.
He was the last person I wanted to encounter ever again, but he must be unsatisfied with how unsuccessful his cronies had been so far.
Because, truth be told, the fact I was this injured was my own fault since I’d simply refused to answer any of the questions my tormentors had confronted me with.
Under Feroy’s scrutinizing gaze, I straightened as well as I could, but the burning fire raging in my chest stopped my efforts very soon.
For a moment, I’d forgotten to move slowly and cautiously, and I received the bill for my carelessness almost instantly.
“Miss Ortha, my men reported that you’re still refusing to cooperate.”
“Your henchmen did something to my ribs.”
“I’ll have a medic visit you after you provide me with answers, but if you insist on being obstinate, I’ll be so as well.”
“Stop insulting my intellect. We both know you won’t send for anyone to help me, no matter what I do or say.”
Instead of answering, Perran stepped closer, and he trailed his index finger over the black design etched into the skin of my neck. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and the urge to retch rode me hard.
To contort my face in disgust wasn’t a conscious decision, and, totally disregarding the pain, I twisted my torso away.
I would have done anything to escape the unwanted contact, but since I was already backed against the wall, all my attempts were in vain.
The only effect my efforts had was that the sadistic gleam in Feroy’s eyes intensified.
“My men told me the most fascinating tale. No matter how often they tried to cut out whatever the color is under your skin, the wounds closed with only minimal bleeding in seconds, and the pattern restored itself as flawless and undamaged as it was before. What a peculiar piece of body modification. My head of security reported that the ink sometimes almost seemed alive.”
If he had any inkling about how I loathed the permanent choker created from divine magic under my skin and how much I wished for the attempts to carve out the darkness to succeed, he’d be a lot happier about the fact that the stupid thing had proven to be irremovable.
Also, I’d actually told his torture master—the one he’d called head of security—that the design had been a gift granted by the Triad, and he hadn’t believed me. Blaming me for telling the truth wasn’t surprising, but that was on him, not on me.
“Makes you wish that your son had one of these when I slit his throat. Am I right?”
A high-pitched noise ringing in my ear followed the pain in my cheek as Perran Feroy slapped me hard for my provoking comment. For a desk worker, he wielded unexpected strength, and the coppery taste of iron in my mouth intensified.
“Be very cautious, Miss Ortha. You’re in no position to display that kind of attitude. It’s evident you haven’t realized yet how dire the situation is you’re in.”
“Don’t worry, I’m aware of my predicament. But I choose to ignore my plight.”
This was the road I’d picked for myself once I’d woken up as a prisoner of the King of Merchants. Quickly, I’d understood that I had two possible ways to approach my imprisonment. Cave and spill everything to my captors, or accept the opposite, more painful route. The choice hadn’t been hard.
I’d never betray the men—no, males.