Chapter 33 Tobias
Tobias
Muffled shouting rang out overhead, and stomping feet sent dust billowing from the rafters. Tobias didn’t move, didn’t so much as flinch. Brontes had been gone for some time, but he’d returned, and given the noise above, he was angry.
The door to the dungeon swung open, and Tobias braced himself instinctually, pressing his back to the cell bars. The wooden steps creaked beneath a hurried stride, and Wembleton waddled into view, nestling himself into a dank corner of the room.
Tobias scoffed under his breath. Sweat beaded along the senator’s forehead, his cheeks bright red, flushed with fear. Wembleton fussed with his fuchsia drape as if to busy his hands before casting a sidelong glance Tobias’s way. “And what exactly are you looking at?”
Wembleton’s scowl washed over him, though Tobias couldn’t be bothered. He lay in a haggard heap on the floor, yet he stood miles taller than the senator, and nothing could convince him otherwise. “I’m surprised, is all.” He mustered a shrug. “Thought Brontes would’ve killed you by now.”
Wembleton let out a derisive snort before looking away, resuming his fiddling. A loud bang shook the ceiling, and the senator jumped and yelped. Brontes must’ve thrown something, and given Wembleton’s reaction, it was a common occurrence.
“I take it he heard,” Tobias said. “About the stoning gone awry.”
Wembleton didn’t respond, eyes trained on the stairwell. Perhaps Tobias should’ve been scared too. He knew the depths of Brontes’s ire well. But his body was too worn to move, and the sovereign’s humiliation brought Tobias the first hint of satisfaction he’d felt in days.
“Is his plan not unfolding as intended?” Tobias’s voice came out slow, as speaking had become draining. “The people aren’t as easily fooled as he’d assumed them to be. They don’t believe in him. They believe in their Savior.”
Wembleton bristled. “That woman is a foul and cruel creature.”
“Was She mean to you?”
He met Tobias’s gaze. “In ways you couldn’t even imagine.”
“Is that, by chance, because you were trying to kill Her?”
Wembleton’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing.
Tobias would’ve smirked if his jaw wasn’t so swollen.
His gums had scabbed over in the three places his teeth used to be, and he’d stopped trying to open his right eye for some time.
The warden had brought him water and bread the day before, but it had done little more than keep starvation at bay.
The dungeon and its horrors had turned his body into a burden.
It didn’t belong to him anymore, yet he suffered its wrath all the same.
The shouting ceased, and in its place came fast, deliberate footsteps. Tobias’s nerves spiked. As the footfalls grew louder, Wembleton cracked a smile.
“Someone’s about to get in an awful lot of trouble.”
The door flung open and Brontes charged down the steps.
Tobias sprang to life, scrambling along the dirt floor until his back slammed against the wall, but Brontes had already unlocked his cell, was standing right in front of him.
There wasn’t time to prepare, to fight, to flee.
Brontes’s fist went flying, and pain exploded through Tobias’s jaw, toppling him face first to the ground.
A hand raked through his hair and hoisted him upright by the roots, and he cried out.
Brontes jabbed at his chin, his nose, his already swollen eye, then thrust him against the cell bars.
The world had gone black around Tobias, but he could feel everything—the punch to his gut, the desperation of his empty lungs, the throbbing of his open wounds.
He was the sovereign’s plaything, a target for his frustrations, and Tobias could do nothing but howl and hack as each blow marked his mangled body.
Tobias dropped to the ground, and a foot plowed into his ribs repeatedly.
The seconds slowed, and his mind became distant and foggy, as if he weren’t connected to his body—as if he was watching his torture from beyond, more spectator than participant.
He’d never known such a beating—cruel and unrelenting, a deluge of aggression devoid of purpose.
With a grunt, Brontes rolled Tobias onto his back, then stomped on his forearm.
The sharp crack of his bone awakened Tobias, and he let out a scream so inhuman, he was certain his transformation was complete—that he was a creature, the helpless prey Brontes so desperately needed him to be.
Brontes stepped back and let out a long sigh.
His task was complete, his temper properly managed, and he slammed and locked the cell door behind him.
Still, Tobias lay across the dirt floor, consumed by the agony of each broken bone, every pulsing welt, the gashes upon gashes cutting through his flesh.
The ground beneath him was sticky and wet, and his body was the same—painted crimson.
He wasn’t a man nor a creature. He was nothing.
A light touch broke through the pain. Pippa reached through the bars of her cell, grazing his fingertips with her own.
He coughed and convulsed, blood sputtering from his lips, and Pippa’s whimpering made the pain all the more severe.
She knew what was happening, and so did he.
He’d been fighting it for days, but at that moment it stared him blankly in the face, a looming shadow he couldn’t ignore.
He fought for a deep breath only to wince, then resigned himself to his fate. Leila wasn’t coming.
He would die in this dungeon.