Chapter 3
Only one torch burning in my vicinity was enough for me to squint my eyes together in pain. The light was too bright for someone who was kept in constant darkness.
A hissing noise spilled from my lips before I could stop myself, and one of the guards—was that the redhead from the wastelands?
—pulled me up before I had a slight chance to recover.
However, his grip wasn’t as hard and malicious as that of the other wardens who’d barged into my cell during the last days.
“Hurry, Nancy. The boss is waiting, and you know how valuable he believes his time is. I won’t take a lashing because you’re dallying, as usual.”
“I’m being as quick as possible, Tavor. But there’s no merit if the captive breaks during transport, is there? If you think we’ll get punished for being a few moments late, imagine what the penalty would entail for damaging the prisoner before he can.”
The endeavor was most likely futile, but I stored the names of the guards inside my brain.
The redhead dragging me—indeed, the one from outside Amalach—was called Nancy, and I got the impression he was used to being treated as inferior by his peers.
His name was vaguely familiar, but Tavor—he was new to me.
My eyes slowly got used to the light, and despite the pain burning through my body and especially my ribs, I memorized the appearance of the guard I hadn’t encountered before today.
Tavor was a big brute, with oily blond strands falling over his face.
That his hair had been in dire need of a wash already a week ago was obvious, even in the dim torchlight.
His mouth was frozen in a perpetual snarl, and his stained clothes had seen much better times.
Stumbling, I almost crashed into him, and I gagged out of reflex.
For a second, I mourned the loss of the scent reminding me of Dion—the one I’d woken up to—in favor of the rancid body odor both of the guards radiated; although, if asked, I’d guess Tavor was the reason for the majority of the smell.
I didn’t even try to fight their maltreatment.
Within the last days, I’d quickly learned to preserve my energy and not give in to the illusion I could overpower two grown, well-fed men. I wasn’t strong enough to escape, and even if I’d broken free, they would have caught me faster than I could blink.
On top of everything, I didn’t have to be a medical genius to comprehend that if I made one wrong move, my injured rib was likely to break, and the fracture could pierce my lungs.
Maybe such a quick death would be preferable to whatever else Feroy had in store for me, but deep within the sea of hopelessness in my soul lived a tiny, stubborn spark of hope refusing to die.
And as stupid as the sentiment sounded, my earlier dream had ignited the glimmer into a small flame.
The torture chamber wasn’t located too far away from my cell, barely twenty steps.
A massive door crafted from dark wood stood open, and a wave of panic washed over me.
I could display a brave facade as much as I wanted, but no bluff would be enough to convince myself—or anyone—that I wasn’t terrified to the bone.
The room behind the entrance was a place where nightmares were created, and the guards hauled me inside without mercy.
Sconces lined the wall, and every second of them held a flickering torch, their light unveiling the horrors this chamber contained.
What had caused the countless dark discolorations staining the uneven stone floor was evident, and even if I lied to myself, the heavy smell in the air gave away that more blood had been spilled here than just from one or two victims.
As much as I wanted to pretend that the stains were just dirt, I couldn’t.
And the abhorrence only started here.
Panic layered over my vision.
The bench in a corner, which could be raised or lowered by a pulley system in the back, had built-in restraints for wrists and ankles. I was intimately familiar with how being strapped onto the hard cot felt, just as I was well acquainted with the iron cage that hung from the ceiling.
Gods, I needed to breathe.
Inhaling—exhaling. And again.
Once I’d fought down my newest anxiety attack, I registered that the fire pit underneath the metal construction was cold, and at least one heavy load tumbled off my chest. Today, my torturers wouldn’t blister and burn my skin.
How I’d forgotten those injuries when I’d cataloged my physical status earlier was a mystery to me. Maybe because the damage was just one part in the never-ending state of suffering I’d found myself in.
My visual perusal was interrupted by Tavor, who grabbed my arm, yanked me away from Nancy, and pushed me into a metal chair bolted to the uneven stone floor. My mind immediately conjured plenty of different ways I’d be tortured.
I’d seen the device before but had never been subjected to this monstrosity.
Until now.
Tavor deftly directed my arms and legs as if I were merely a doll, and with click after click, he bound me to the contraption with heavy restraints.
Half-heartedly, I struggled against his ministrations, but after he’d slapped me so hard I temporarily couldn’t hear anything in my left ear, I was too stunned to keep up my resistance.
The shackles were cold, encasing my joints so tightly there was no give at all, and pinpricks arose, biting my fingertips, courtesy of the restricted blood flow.
But their preparations didn’t stop there.
While I was busy dealing with all the new, unpleasant sensations and fighting my panic, two straps of leather wrapped around my neck, one above the black mark of divine magic and the other below.
They weren’t closed like a collar in my nape, though.
Instead, Tavor—or whoever—attached them to the backrest of the chair.
My lungs constricted, and once more, I forced myself to breathe.
I couldn’t help it; my body trembled. The leather pressed into my throat, just slightly, but since I’d almost died at the gallows, my mind provided me with images of suffocation I wasn’t able to escape.
That I hadn’t been myself during that particular ordeal didn’t matter—the moment the rope had pulled taut and my airways had been closed off would haunt me for the rest of my life.
In an attempt to convince myself that the slight pressure was nothing more than that of a choker, like the one I’d worn for months, I shut my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.
In hindsight, blinding myself to the danger in front of me hadn’t been the smartest choice, and when my eyelids fluttered open once more, I winced as I spotted the King of Merchants himself standing directly in front of me, adding to the rancid smell of the place.
“Miss Ortha. I’d claim it’s nice to see you again, but well, I don’t make a habit of lying.”
“You again. Didn’t you get the message back in my cell, Feroy?” Where I took the strength to retort with a halfway firm voice, I couldn’t tell. Thank the gods for small miracles.
“If there’s anyone who doesn’t understand her dire circumstances, then it’s you, Miss Ortha. Luckily, I’m better equipped to deal with you compared to earlier. Nancy, why don’t you show our guest what will happen if she decides not to cooperate?”
“Sure, boss.”
Did the voice of the guard slightly waver?
Before I could analyze the potential sign of discomfort, a cranking noise caught my attention, and my eyes widened as the straps around my neck tightened.
Although I was still able to breathe easily, there was too much pressure for me to feel fine.
My airways revolted, and a shudder rolled through me as I fought to take in just a trickle of air.
“Charming.” Finally, the blockage had loosened, and I tried my best not to sound as scared as I was. But my quivering voice betrayed all pretense.
“Your fate rests in your own hands. If you want to stop your interrogation, then answer my questions, and in return, I’ll grant you a quick, merciful death without unnecessary pain.”
No. The worlds could crumble, and still, I’d keep my tongue in check.
“Let’s start simple. Tell me the names of the men you traveled with.”
The longer I’d been a captive of Feroy, the more I’d wondered if maybe my silence tactic had been the wrong call to make, and I’d fare better if I took a page out of Dion’s book—and lied as if my life depended on it.
Pondering about how best to approach my current situation, I worked my jaw before finally pressing out an answer.
“Lord Timenth Cantor. His steward, Archibald. His guards, Marthitas and Praol, as well as my cousin Rentios.” At least those had been the cover names on the fake papers we’d used when we’d been traveling through Ivreia.
“Tsk, Miss Ortha. For a while now, I’ve wondered when you’d resort to lying. What I didn’t anticipate, though, was how bad a liar you are. Shame on me for assuming you’d be more clever.”
Staying silent, I braced myself for punishment.
No matter what would happen to me, I wasn’t going to sell out the males who’d kept me safe during the past few months.
Not even the deceitful bastard of a royal pain in the ass.
And honestly, why Feroy was so focused on the identity of the males in the first place was a mystery to me.
“If I counted correctly, that was five lies. Nancy, do your job.”
The cranking noise returned, burning itself into my consciousness.
Again. And again. Two more times.
With each instance, the leather encircling my throat tightened, and a pathetic whimper escaped my lips. Breathing became a physical struggle instead of a result due to a figment of my fears. “What is it with the Feroy men…and their fascination with choking women?” I coughed out.
“You have the power to end this. Just give me the truth.”
“No.”