Through the nausea and dizziness, my eyes land on a Noctryn directly in the back. Shadows swirl around him in violent tendrils. It appears as if he takes a step forward but halts when the professor’s austere voice rings out again.
“Cadets, as the voicebounds come down the line, you will drink from their chalice. Be greedy. Don’t leave a drop,” he says in the same foreboding tone he’s carried throughout the ceremony. The directions wash over me in their abruptness. I want to refuse, but I’m borderline delirious.
Voicebound is just a fancy word for prisoner. Their voices were robbed from them both figuratively and literally as they’reimprisoned to serve for a crime they’ve been accused of. Accused being the main word. There is no such thing as a fair trial when the verdict has already been decided.
They trickle in one by one in a single file line, heads bowed, and hands cuffed in front of them. Each holds a small black cup in their grip. The Veil at my back presses flush up against me. I can hear his breaths and feel the rise and fall of his chest synchronizing with each intake. Could it be Ambrose? I would know right away if it was him, wouldn’t I? I can’t think clearly enough to work it out.
What would generally be akin to breathing is now an impossible puzzle. I could typically pick him out of a hundred men while blindfolded, but all of my senses have been diminished to the point of being useless. My mind feels like my head is being held underwater and severely oxygen-deprived.
A voicebound stops in front of each of us, head down and hands held out.
“Drink up, cadets,” the smarmy professor instructs from somewhere close by.
We’re meant to reach out and take the small chalice and drink, but both of my hands are currently being held captive behind me in an unforgiving grip. A grip that screams punishment for my defiance. The captor at my back seems to realize this at the same time and moves both of my wrists into one large hand, his other taking the drink from the worn-down-looking female.
Dirty-blonde hair hangs in front of her downcast eyes. Her lips are chapped and scabbed over from extreme dehydration, and her prison uniform is threadbare.
The brute at my back holds the small cup in his large hand, tilting my chin up and gently pressing it to my lips. “Drink,” he whispers.
Goose bumps race up my arms.
The thought that hits me first is how incredibly intimate the gesture is. I consider defying him for a second, but he would probably just waterboard me with it instead.
I slowly do as told and sip the warm liquid. It has a faint earthy smell and a smoky taste as it goes down. I swallow all of it and lean back into the Veil’s chest.
He leans close to my ear. “Good girl,” he murmurs.
I rest my entire body weight against him because at this point he’s all but holding me up. Surprisingly, he doesn’t say anything and just allows me to settle in.
“Battle stances,” a deep voice calls out.
The Veil at my back doesn’t move into a battle stance but remains standing stoically behind me. I thought Veils were sticklers for following orders, but apparently not this one.
At first, I feel nothing. Just the continued hazy feeling that portrays the room as spinning, and an overly smoky taste that lingers in my mouth. Then it slowly morphs into a rapid burn licking along my ribs. Not pain but heat—raw and palpable.
It doesn’t happen quickly. It’s more like a rising inferno. Slow and steady. The room gradually fractures around me, and my vision explodes into white-hot fury as the heat spreads throughout my body. I feel like I’m burning from the inside out.
I collapse to my knees, my hands clawing at the ground searching for salvation that isn’t coming. My breaths come in ragged gasps between the screams that tear from my throat. The heat becomes a burn that mutates into liquid molten, replacing the blood in my veins.
Pain. Immeasurable, indescribable pain.
A scream tears from my throat.
I fall to my side in convulsions, my spine twisted. Something has begun, and I honestly don’t care if I survive it.
In fact, I pray for death.
Beg for it.
Salvation. An end to the torment.
Whatever they had us drink wasn’t meant to heal or enhance. It was meant to remake. I scream for what feels like hours, maybe days. My throat is raw from it. That and from begging for death to claim me. I have no idea how long the agony lasts, but eventually, it subsides enough for me to peel my eyes open.
Death didn’t listen to my pleas. It typically doesn’t. The ceremonial hall is still here, along with all the key players.
My world was ripped apart vessel by vessel, but nothing changed in theirs. The Veil remains standing rigidly in front of me, looking down upon my broken body, both of his hands curled into fists.
“Get ready…They’re starting to emerge,” a low and steady voice rings out.
