Page 128 of Somno Slave

“Enough!” I exclaim, louder now. “I can’t see anymore. Enough!”

The word fractures something inside of me—it is panic, sharp and immediate, threaded through with something that feels too much like grief. Helplessness twists inside me until it turns feral.

“Enough—God damn it, I said enough!”

The room stills. The bucket halts mid-air. Water trembles against the wood but does not spill. Even the air seems to pause, held tight in the lungs of everyone present.

Then the man at the front turns his head.

Slowly, painfully slowly, like the movement is measured by something older than time. His pale eyes settle on me at last, narrowing just slightly as though he can see me.

“Well, well, well,” he says, quiet enough that it should barely be heard.

The words slide against the inside of my skull, hot and invasive, like fingers pressing into the softest part of my mind. My stomach drops.

I step back without thinking.

Pure instinct.

My hand reaches for Deogal beside me, desperate and automatic, before I can even process what it means—that in this room, in this nightmare, I am reaching for him as if he is the safest thing here. My fingers meet nothing, only empty air and the absence of him hits harder than touch ever could.

Before I can turn, before I can understand where he’s gone, the Friar’s gaze shifts away from me and lands on the others. “Stop.”

One word. Cold. Absolute.

The water stops immediately.

Silence crashes into the chamber so hard it feels like pressure in my ears.

The others step back at once.

On the stone, Deogal jerks away from them, peeling the soaked cloth from his own face with shaking fingers. Water drips from his chin. From his lashes. From the chains. He sucks in air, chest heaving.

He coughs.

Once.

Twice.

He bows over, spluttering more. I hear the way the water sloshes from inside his body, how he forces it back up his throat and spews it onto the cobblestone floor. It sprays everywhere. Sick. Water. Bile. The floor drowns in liquid. It’s hot, and disgusting, seeping through my naked toes, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to stumble away from it.

Deogal remains hunched over, shoulders heaving, back arched like a wounded animal as he struggles to drag air into his lungs. It lasts far too long. I hate it. I hate watching this. But my vision tunnels on him until the rest of the chamber dissolves into a low, taunting murmur.

He stays bowed for several endless minutes, shaking with each ragged breath.

Then—he lifts his head and looks at me. Not through me or past me.Atme.

For the first time in this chamber, they find me like they’ve been searching.

“You asked to know,” he says quietly.

His eyes still shimmer with tears, but they no longer fall. There’s a terrible moment where the softness remains, where I can still see the boy pinned beneath holy hands and whispered prayers.

The boy on the floor stills.

It’s as if concrete pours through his veins, solidifying everything soft. The hasty, shallow breaths he was gasping in, stop. He inhales deeply and I almost feel the oxygen pushing through my own lungs. For the first time, it doesn’t feel used and damp. It’s cold, sharp, like it’s from a place far from here. His breathing eventually evens out.

His jaw tightens, chains clinking softly as he shifts. He pushes himself upright. Water streams down his body, breathing steadies. Not because they’ve spared him. But because he’s suddenly choosing it.