But I won’t let despair suck me into its inferno this time. I choose anger. Erecting my strongest shields around my thoughts—because I will not let that bitch see any part of me—my mind replays everything the Dróttning has done to this world. Everything she’s done to me. It’s a never-ending loop that I refuse to stop. My pulse races and my heart pounds out its beat, the blood of my ancestors preparing me for anything she may bring.
Twice, Fhord’s betrayal dances into my mind, but I push it away. This is about the Dróttning. She’s coming, and I will be ready to spit in her face when she does. She will not see fear or anguish. Only fury. Hate. Resolve.
Guards occasionally traipse in to leer at my nudity. Some even touch me, fondling my breasts and poking their grubby fingers inside me. Laughing at my horror and degradation as I refuse to give them the satisfaction of screams or tears. Skin crawling, my mind occasionally shutting down when the assault goes too far, I deny them any response. I hold my body still because I will not shrink away from their depravity.
And I wait.
Twice, someone other than the Dróttning appears to give me pain. They beat me, leaving dark bruises all along my body and face. But I’ve suffered pain before. This will heal, and I know it’s only the beginning. So I hold on to my malice.
And I wait.
Finally, hours after they strapped me here, my head drooping in a sleep I desperately need already, I feel a pulse of energy moving toward me. It’s similar to Fhord’s but colder somehow. A winter storm driving forward to destroy everything in its path. If I can feel it, even through the manacle, it must be the Dróttning. Only her power could be so strong.
It won’t destroy me.
She won’t destroy me.
She’s pretty, in a frigid sort of way. I knew she aged slowly—she’s been alive a very long time—but I’m still surprised by how young she looks. Perhaps she’s like the Vanir and Æsir in my worlds, and will live forever.
Or until I kill her.
I suspect she and I are nearly the same height, but I’m taller than most humans. Her long, straight hair is black as a starless night, a stark contrast to the pale skin it frames. With strong bones and full lips that are painted so dark, they nearly match her hair, she looks like a witch from children’s nightmares on Midgard. The red dress she wears hugs the few curves she has in an otherwise stick-thin frame. Only the knives in her belt interrupt the look of blood from neck to toe.
She strolls in, her eyes dancing, and shoves two fingers inside of me, the longer fingernails scraping my walls to pull blood with them when she draws them away. As I’m gasping, struggling to control the agony that erupts in my core, her tongue reaches out to taste my pain, before sucking her fingers into her mouth.
“I’ve always enjoyed the taste of elf blood,” she purrs as she takes a knife from her belt and rests its edge against my bare skin. My flesh puckers where she touches, flinching away despite my resolve to stay still. And then she slices a thin strip of my skin, her gaze holding mine the entire time.
I can’t stop the shudder that washes over me. Closing my eyes, sucking in deep breaths as I work through the agony throbbing through me, I cling to the mountain of hate I built while I hung here.
She will not break me. Ever.
“Remove her manacle,” she directs one of the guards. Turning to me, her lips lift in a sneer that tries to mimic a smile. “I want to be able to touch your mind while we do this. It’s so much more fun when I can taste your pain.” She pauses as a man with a rough hand does her bidding, then backs away.
Twisting my neck to stare at the wall instead of her, I hold back the sigh that wants to escape as the blanket lifts from my thoughts. If the Dróttning knew me better—if I’d given in and revealed myself to my captors all those years ago—she’d have kept me bound. She knows I’m strong but not how strong.
“Look at me.” The Dróttning’s demand echoes through me, persuasion layered through her words. She’s trying to control my mind, but I’m more powerful than anyone else I’ve encountered in Vanatia other than Fhord, perhaps. She won’t take this from me.
“Look at me,” she repeats, anger entering her tone.
But I hold on. Because she will not control my mind.
“If you don’t look at me, I will slice off your tits. Now, before we’ve even had a chance to talk. I know your body heals itself, but I also know it will be a slow, painful process. I don’t have to do that. We may never get there, if you’re smarter this time and give me what I want.”
I turn my head and show her my anger and defiance. She may compel me with threats, but we both know it’s not what she wants. She wants to wield my thoughts. She wants my secret. I refuse to give her that.
“Never.” Holding her stare, I let venom fill me, twisting every feature. “I will never give you what you want. You failed before and you will fail now.”
“Why?” Curiosity fills this word. I think she’s legitimately confused about why I would defy her, deny her access to my thoughts and memories
“You’ve always chosen yourself over everyone else,” I hiss. “You can’t understand any other choice because your dominance in this world matters more to you than anything. Or anyone. But I see how small and empty you are. How fucking alone you are. Because you choose yourself.”
Pausing, I let her seethe in her anger at my words for a few seconds. And then I spit out the rest.
“My fear, my greatest fear, is that I would become like you. That I would sacrifice others to my own needs or wants. I will never let myself drop so low, become so depraved, as to be anything like you. I will suffer any pain, tolerate any humiliation, before I will give in to your demands.”
“Then you shall.” She drags her fingernails across the wound that still seeps blood, knives digging in to wrench more agony from me, before lifting them to her lips. A slow smile twists her features as she sucks away little bits of my life. “Bring a chalice of this elf’s blood to my room within an hour,” she orders, her gaze still holding mine.
Spinning, she strolls away, her words echoing through the chamber along with the staccato of her heels. “Leave the manacle off so I can relish her torment. Every drip that fills my cup must cause her pain. I want her to suffer as you extract her sacrifice. She’ll heal quickly, but you’re to ensure she bleeds through the night. Do anything you must. Or anything you’d like. Just don’t kill her. I’ll check back in tomorrow.”
