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At the centre of the claustrophobic room lay their prey for the afternoon.

The victim was bound to a metal table. Twisting at their bonds, the man tried to free himself. Areanel didn’t speak. Nor did Ryyen, who waited for her cue. The prisoner shuffled, trying to inch away as Areanel marched closer. She ensured her steps were loud so the sound echoed.

Leaning forward, Areanel brought her face inches from her prisoner’s as torchlight gleamed behind, giving her silhouette a looming impression. ‘It seems you have already had your fun with this one, Ryyen?’

Ryyen gave a wordless hum in response.

The acidic stench of vomit had Areanel’s nose scrunching. The prisoner no longer seemed like the smug, mysterious hooded rebel that Nymlaris had caught in the forest. No. This man looked utterly broken.

Even beneath the blindfold, Areanel could tell the prisoner’s eyes were swollen. Water dripped from the ends of his hair, and the upper section of his shirt was torn in places, soaked in sweat.

Blood coated his abdomen, and Areanel drew in a single breath at the sight of the tiny incisions that peeked out from beneath his torn shirt. An ache formed in her hands when she noticed how his fingers were bruised, misshapen and crooked. As though they had been broken in more than one place.

She remembered how broken bones felt. Could feel the phantom pain even now.

His lips were torn, and blood dribbled from his open mouth. Teeth had been ripped out, scattering the metal table around his head—and Areanel was suddenly glad that she had never been on the receiving end of Ryyen’s questioning.

She knew Ryyen would rather die than hurt her in such a way. Knew that they hated this part of their job as much as she did. But that was what it was—a job. Nothing more.

No matter how uncomfortable or conflicted they felt doling out punishments, they had to do it. It had gotten easier over the years, and having been the one on the metal table for so long, Areanel had grown numb to it. Desensitised. This was nothing compared to what she had seen and what had been done to her.

And by the unflinching look Ryyen gave her, they felt the same.

The prisoner’s boots and socks had been stripped, and his toes were turning a pale shade of blue from being exposed to the cold dew of the mountain for so long.

Areanel straightened at the sight and rolled the tension from her shoulders. It was just a job. Looking towards Ryyen, Areanel asked, ‘Did he give you anything?’

Ryyen shook their head in reply, crossing their arms over their chest.

She glanced back over to the man who lay, still trying to free himself from the bonds. ‘I must say, I’m impressed. Not many can withstand the torment my Skin-Walker afflicts.’

The prisoner gurgled a response, but it was muffled by the gag in his mouth. He looked as though he had aged tenfold in the dim, winking light.

‘Well, that won’t do! It’s a bad habit to mumble. Here,’ Areanel held a hand out behind her. Ryyen unsheathed their dagger and placed the cool hilt of the blade within Areanel’s grasp.

Her eyes did not stray from the man. Watching his reaction closely, Areanel let her free hand graze the outside of his arm in a featherlight touch, dragging the blade across his sweat-ridden skin as he trembled beneath her fingers.

It was exhilarating—the power of life and death in her hands.

Fascinated, Areanel ghosted the blade over his body again, slowly making her way up his abdomen and to his mouth, where she halted her movements. She waited one breath. Then another. Oh, how easy it would be to slice this man’s skin and watch the blood seep out of him. Is this what it felt like to hold a man’s life in your hands? Was this what her own torturers had felt? Maybe, just maybe, she understood how someone could get drunk on this kind of power. It was dizzying.

In one smooth motion, Areanel placed the dagger beneath the rag that parted his lips. With a swift, hard tug, she sliced it in two, letting it slide away.

The harsh action caused the man’s head to rise off the table, only to fall back not a second later, smacking with a satisfying thud.

A garbled groan passed his bloodied lips as he attempted to turn his upper body to the side. Areanel continued to untie the man’s bonds, slicing through the thick rope around his torso.

Spittle flew from the prisoner’s mouth as he spat blood and built-up mucus over the side of the table, then rolled onto his back, head flopping to the side. Gods! How long had Ryyen been interrogating him? The man looked beyond exhausted. Maybe even a little delirious.

‘Much better!’ Areanel’s chirpy voice was a stark contrast to the atmosphere. ‘I hope Ryyen wasn’t so harsh with you. They tend to get carried away sometimes.’

Ryyen’s scoff was almost incredulous. As though to say, this was nothing. And they were right: compared to what they had both been through, this was child’s play.

Soft footfalls sounded, telling her that Ryyen had retreated to the wooden door on her far side. Clattering could be heard, and when Ryyen reappeared, they carried an array of weapons. Standing at the back wall, Ryyen crossed their arms, awaiting further instruction.

Placing a hand upon the man’s bicep, Areanel gently asked, ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Fuck you!’ Spit flew at her face as the man jerked away from her.