Samson slid farther down the wall to edge away from their gazes. Shame and anger roiled through him. He felt small, powerless. Water dripped down his naked chest, his thighs. Blood still ringed his wrists and ankles, and his teeth chattered.
Look away, he wanted to shriek.
The guard chortled. “No fight left.”
The officer unhooked the chain and tugged forcefully. Samson stumbled. He landed on his right knee, biting his tongue and letting out a muffled cry.
The guard sniffed. “Can’t even walk straight.”
“Up,” the officer snarled. He kicked Samson in the shin, hard.
Samson crawled onto his hands and knees, but he did not get up.
“Useless.” The officer yanked the chain, sliding Samson’s arms out from under him.
He hit the stone floor. It was slimy and cold, dirt caked into the grout. The texture was revolting, and Samson had the urge to scrub himself until his skin was raw, but he did not move.
He knew it was useless protesting, useless to fight. But still. He would rather die than follow a Jantari’s orders ever again.
The officer hauled Samson up and roughly pushed him against the wall. He was shorter than Samson, but wider, with hands that dwarfed the large coconuts found on Seshar.
“Now listen, islander,” he hissed. “Youwillwalk. Or I will drag you face-first through your own dirt and piss. Either way, you’re coming.”
Samson closed his eyes, wavering. He wanted to annoy the officer, petty as it may be. Even now, irritation settled on the officer’s face, deepening his scowl.He’s going to hit me, Samson thought dully. And yet, Samson was not afraid of the blow. The officer’s irritation gave him satisfaction. However small. It was the only victory he could manage.
The punch nearly took him out.
The officer hit the bruise on his chest, and Samson gasped. His head knocked against the wall, white spots searing across his vision. Skies above, ithurt.
“Now move,” the officer growled.
This time, when he pulled, Samson followed.
A plain black uniform was laid out on a bench outside the cell. Theofficer ordered him to put it on. Samson donned it wordlessly, holding out his hands as the officer undid the cuffs to slip on the sleeves. When the cuffs unlocked, Samson did not try to charge or even to run.
What was the use, when all he had left, all the people he had loved, were gone?
“This way.”
They went down a stone corridor that smelled of old, dried blood and musty sweat. A few cells held remainders of their past occupants. Samson spotted a torn patch of fabric, possibly from a jacket. An orange splotch, hastily scrubbed, adorned the floor of another. In one corner, he found a decaying toe.
The tunnel began to veer upward. Guards stood before a metal door, and faintly, Samson heard the clink of metal and the rumbling of earth beyond it.
“Officer Ren,” a guard said with a salute. His lips twitched into a scowl as he looked at Samson. “Islander.”
“We’re to take the islander to Rhea’s Chamber and wait for the king,” Ren said.
“But, sir, the chamber isn’t fully stabilized—”
“It’s the king’s wish,” Ren said, his voice edged, and the guard shut up quickly. He opened the door. A cold, sudden draft whipped past them, and Samson felt a low moan reverberate through his bones.
It was only then that he registered where he was going.The mines.Great Serpent, they were taking himback. Fear, true fear, leapt through Samson. It zipped up his spine, metallic and harsh.
“No,” he croaked.
It was the first time he had spoken.
The officer turned. “What?”
