Chapter Seven
ELYSSARA
“You look every bit the royal pet. I’m sure His Majesty enjoyed seeing his new toy dressed like that,” Vessira barbs, as she pulls me along the hallways that will haunt me again later when sleep finally pulls me under.
“Oh, I’m his pet? I thought it was you who was his leashed dog,” I click my tongue, shaking my head.
“We don’t all crawl for crowns, Vessira.
Some of us still have spines,” I bite back, though I know I’m only guaranteeing my own beating with every word that comes out of my stupid, undisciplined mouth.
Then again, silence has never gripped me like defiance has.
Vessira yanks on my arm, sticking her booted foot out in front of me as she does so.
My heeled shoes catch on her boot, and I go sprawling across the frigid, unforgiving floor.
My ribs collide with the stone—cracking over my own grunt.
Vessira’s boot presses heavily into my back, squashing and pivoting to drive me further into the stone beneath.
Fuck it hurts. But I refuse to give her the satisfaction of hearing my pain.
Looming over me, Vessira angles her mouth into a snarl, “I might be his leashed dog, but you’re his beast. And you know what he does with all his beasts? He brands them so they never forget who owns them. You wanna be branded, Gutter Rat?”
Panic seizes my chest, and I can feel my magic fighting against its cage, burning me up from the inside out. I swallow thickly, and Vessira’s eyes notice my throat working. She scoffs as if she’s won. As if she’s seen a crack in my armor that she can capitalize on.
“I didn’t think so,” she snaps.
She removes her boot from my back, and I suck in a ragged breath, reaching for air in the same way I reach for the tether with him—desperately, painfully, automatically.
I clamber up, slowly climbing to my knees, and pushing to stand.
She moves her mouth toward my ear, preparing to say something wretched, no doubt, but white-hot rage seizes me.
I throw my head towards her forcefully in a wild arc, manically lunging, teeth bared, and I connect with her nose.
If the crunch of splintering bone didn’t tell me I’d hit my mark, the river of blood gushing over her mouth and down her chin certainly does.
Her hand shoots to her nose.
She’s silent.
Still.
For too long.
Her shoulders rise and fall with increasing speed, and I know I’m not going to like what’s coming.
She slowly drags her eyes up from the floor until they lock on mine. Her deep brown eyes, that border on black, bore into me, unflinching. “Violence begets violence, Gutter Rat.”
Dread pools in my stomach, but I don’t regret it.
Not yet, anyway.
“Begets violence, begets violence, Vessira. No one leashes me. No one calls me beast and continues breathing. I will fight you every day until the Stars themselves call me home,” I spit.
She scoffs, dragging a calloused hand across her bloodied mouth.
“You won’t be waiting long for the call, Lightborne,” she taunts. “Correk, Lars—to the dungeons!” she growls, ordering the men at the top of the stairs that lead to my new home among the rats.
The men unlock the heavy wooden door, and descend swiftly. Apparently they, too, wish to avoid Vessira’s wrath. At least they have the good sense to do it silently.
She drags me down the stairs, and boots me down the last few, where I am, once again, sprawled across the grimy dungeon floor.
The world tilts, bones rattling, vision sparking white.
I feel my lip split open again, the metallic taste of blood coating my tongue.
“Lars, pin her shoulders. Correk, ankles. The Lightborne bitch needs to remember who owns her,” Vessira commands and the men do as she bids.
Vessira spins on her heel, bounds up the stairs three at a time, and disappears through the door onto the main level of the castle.
All I am left with is my own torment. My dread, my anticipation, my panic, my heartbreak.
My fucking heartbreak that cuts me deeper than anything Vessira could do to me.
But it doesn’t last long.
Vessira returns, face distorted in menace, and dangling from her hand is a branding iron, tipped with a white-hot symbol or shape I can’t quite make out. Regardless, she stalks towards me like a wild animal, eager to deliver my punishment.
My skin breaks out in a cold sweat, terror gripping my lungs, my breath gushing in and out in rapid waves. No. No. No.
The walls pulse with heat. I swear I can hear my own heartbeat echoing off the stone.
I know he can’t hear me. I know I can’t reach him. But still, I try. Kael, I beg down the silent, empty tether—and I hate myself for it. I need you.
But, of course, he’s not here.
No one is ever there.
Not really.
Not when I need them.
Not when I’m the one who’s breaking.
I thrash against my captors, like a cut beast—if she’s going to treat me like one, I’ll become one. But they’ll never hear me beg.
I hold my tongue, unrelenting, teeth biting down on it and drawing blood.
What’s a little more?
“Hold her steady, men,” Vessira laughs with disdain.
It’s only me and the fates now—no gods left to beseech, save for Morrathys, but I’m not ready to meet the Final Gate yet.
Her boot presses into my lower back.
My fists squeeze into tight balls—bracing myself.
She will not see me hurt.
She will not break me.
No one gets to see my pain anymore.
The only place it’s safe is in that dark, hollow thing inside my chest—buried in the hole where my heart used to be.
If pain is a god, then defiance is my prayer.
Then she brands me.
The iron hisses against my skin—a serpent striking flesh.
Lightning tears through me.
I stifle the scream.
The smell of burnt flesh hangs in the air.
Fuuuuuuuck.
My shoulders are pinned. My ankles braced. My stomach pressed into the floor, and the branding iron still searing my skin between my shoulders.
I can’t move.
I can’t fight.
I can’t scream.
I can only endure.
Endure.
Endure.
I writhe and push against my constraints.
Fighting
I need to fight.
I cannot give in.
And that’s when I feel it—the hand on my right ankle loosens. The man’s grip faltering.
This is my chance.
I have next to no leverage. Only a single leg while pinned prone on the floor.
But it’s a lifeline. It’s an opportunity. And if life on the streets of Virellin taught me anything, it’s this: opportunity is the difference between another dawn and the Final Gate.
I muster all the strength I have and drive my knee up as high as I can take it, thrusting it into the back of Vessira’s knee. Her leg folds underneath her, and she crumbles to the ground.
The branding iron comes loose in her grip, peeling off my skin and tumbling to the floor.
Relief floods my body.
“You fucking idiot!” Vessira admonishes the man at my ankles. “You had one fucking job!”
“Apologies, Commander,” the man bows in deference. “I— I lost my grip,” he stutters.
Vessira winds her arm back and slaps the man across the face with the back of her hand.
“Not fucking good enough, Correk! Drag the bitch back into her cell. You’re on extended duty!”
Vessira gestures to the other man—Lars, I think—to leave, and she follows him out, dangling the branding iron in her fist up the stairs, fury still lashing into the air like violent whips.
And for a moment—nothing.
The dungeon hums in the quiet. Only the smell of burnt flesh keeping me company.
And Correk.
He waits for the others to close the door. Patient. Waiting.
The bolt grinds, the lock clicks.
Then, footsteps. He moves.
Correk steps toward me, tentatively. Slowly. Intentionally.
He kneels beside me, stretching out his arm, and I pull away.
I flinch.
“Easy. I’m not here to hurt you,” he says, tone tender and familiar, though I don’t trust a single fucking person in this castle.
“You won’t?” I ask, skeptical.
“We all wear masks around here, Princess,” he responds with a wink.
What does that mean?
I push myself off the floor—pain in my ribs flaring, my scorched skin raw. No doubt it’ll get infected down here.
I can’t help it—I internally laugh at the idea of a flesh wound killing me before the prophecy ever does.
“And what mask do you wear?” I ask Correk, curiosity getting the better of me.
“I’ll bring you something for that wound,” he says, ignoring me.
“You sure you won’t just poison me with it?” I bite, unwilling to trust a single moment of kindness.
“Nah, not me Princess. I’m the only friend you’ve got in here,” he assures me.
Princess? Friend? Is this man Dravari? A friend of Kael’s? A trick?
“Who are you?” I narrow my eyes.
“For now, I’m the man who released your ankle, Princess Elyssara,” he stretches out his arm to help me up, and this time, I take it.
“Thank you… Correk,” I say hesitantly.
“There is much at stake, Princess,” he responds cryptically.
“Care to elaborate?” I snipe.
And his only response is a half-smile that never reaches his eyes before he leads me into my cell and locks the gate.