37
An executioner’s blade
ZARA
The cold sears through me, sharper than the jagged blade Malric drags along my arm. Blood pools in rivulets, staining the rusted table beneath me. Pain blooms in bursts, white-hot and electric, but I refuse to scream. My body shakes, each muscle taut as a bowstring, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s breaking me.
“You’re stubborn,” Malric murmurs, his voice a silken snarl.
His fingers, long and skeletal, press into the wound, digging deep. My vision blurs, but I bite down on the inside of my cheek, the taste of copper flooding my mouth.
“Kade won’t save you.” His breath reeks of decay, sour and cloying. “You’ve been abandoned, Zara. Left to rot in the earth, like the rest of your pitiful coven.”
The mention of my coven hits harder than the torture, despite everything they’ve done to me. Malric’s using physicaland psychological pain to torture me, and the asshole’s skilled at it, drawing out my agony as he tries to break me.
He circles the table like a predator savoring the kill, dragging sharp claws along my skin. It’s not enough to slice, but it is enough to sting. The light in the chamber flickers, shadows licking the walls as though feeding on my suffering. He stops at my side, the rhythmic drip of my blood onto the floor the only sound besides my shallow breaths.
“You know what I love about pain?” Malric muses, his tone light and conversational. “It’s a language everyone understands. No lies, no subterfuge. Just truth, stripped bare. Shall we discover yours?”
He holds up a thin blade; the edge glinting wickedly in the dim light.
Before I can brace myself, he drives a blade into my thigh, slow and deliberate. My muscles seize, the pain detonating like a bomb, radiating outward in hot waves that overwhelm me. A strangled noise escapes my throat, but I swallow the scream before it leaves my lips. This is my line, this is the fight raging between us, and I will not let him win it easily.
The blade slides free, and for a moment, relief pulses through me and then the pain reignites as Malric presses his palm against the wound and the head of his magic singes the raw flesh. Tears run down my face before I can stop them and my body convulses as the pain consumes me.
I pant, inhaling the sickening, acrid air that reeks with the stench of charred skin.
Malric laughs, the sound low and depraved. “Pain is a universal language, Zara. Give me what I want and it will end.”
I spit at him, the blood and saliva splattering across his face.
“Go to hell,” I rasp, my voice shredded and raw.
His smile sharpens, all teeth and malice. “Oh, little witch. We’re already there.”
Malric steps away, retrieving a vial of some dark viscous liquid from a nearby table. He holds it up, swirling the contents as though admiring fine wine. The liquid catches the dim light, its surface thick and sluggish, like tar mixed with blood. It oozes against the glass, clinging as though eager to escape. A faint, malevolent shimmer ripples through it as if it’s alive with unadulterated malice.
Malric’s eyes flick between me and the glass container, his lips curling into a grotesque semblance of a smile. He uncorks the vial, the sharp, putrid scent of its contents filling the air. It’s a mix of decay and something metallic, something alive. It’s wicked and it’s vile, and his thumbs prick as he tilts it toward me.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, his tone almost playful. “It’s an old recipe. A little blackthorn root, a touch of hemlock, and just the right amount of your own blood. It binds to the soul, Zara, and amplifies every ounce of pain. Every nerve in your body will feel as if it’s aflame.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to show fear, but the dread coils deep in my stomach, an insidious thing. He steps closer, his skeletal fingers brushing along my cheek with mock gentleness. I almost shudder, but manage to stop myself from showing the sign of weakness he’s looking for.
“You’ll scream,” he whispers, his voice a promise. “And when you do, I’ll be there to savor it.”
I thrash against the restraints, the metal biting into my wrists and ankles, but it’s no use. He tilts the vial, pouring the liquid over my forearm. At first, it’s cold, almost soothing, but then it seeps into my skin, igniting something deeper. The burn starts slowly, a dull ache that builds and builds until it’s an inferno.
It’s not pain.
It’s annihilation.
I arch off the table, every nerve singing a symphony of sorrow as they spark and snap under the relentless agony. The liquid seeps into my veins like molten fire, a thousand tiny needles piercing through me, shredding muscle and bone with their venomous touch. My scream claws at my throat, desperate for release, but I bite down hard, my teeth grinding against the raw taste of iron.
The flames inside me twist and churn, racing through my limbs like wildfire, consuming every fragment of my will. My vision fractures, splitting into jagged, surreal shards where the flickering light of the chamber bends and stretches, mocking me. The stench of my own burning flesh rises again and its acerbic tang lodges inside my lungs until every breath feels like inhaling glass.
Malric’s laughter cuts through the haze, its low, serpentine sound full of triumph and glee.
“There’s the truth beneath your façade, Zara. Pain does more than strip you bare, little witch. It shows you what you really are.”
