She huffs out a resigned breath, then rises to her feet, skirts swishing as she stomps back to his side. “Fine. But I want her to suffer.”
“Suffer she will, my vengeful one.” He takes her place in my line of sight. His cadaverous skin and monstrous features are infinitely more horrifying than Melité’s petulant beauty. I fight a gag as his tongue—foul black and forked at the tip—licks the side of my face, where the dagger carved its mark. His whole frame shudders in delight as he swallows my blood, eyelids closing to prolong the sensation. His tattoos shimmer again, the designs warping in a way I cannot decipher. His irises glow redder than before as they sliver open to meet mine.
“We’ll start with these,” he says smoothly, holding up a set of shackles.
I assume they’ll be iron, but they do not appear to be crafted from the familiar dark metal. Instead, they are shiny black stone, and glow faintly in the weak light.
“Now, these are no normal manacles,” he informs me, smiling like we are old friends. “These are harvested especially from dead portals. They contain traces of the leylines within them. Not enough to travel anywhere, of course, but enough to mimic the rather…intriguing…mental effects one experiences when lost within them.”
Gods, no.
I have not forgotten how it felt to lose myself in the portal network. The way it frayed my mind, my very self. If these shackles do anything like that…
I will never survive it.
My heart’s frantic beats scrape the iron bolt as my pulse kicks into higher gear. Fresh waves of pain wash over me, a relentless tide. My lips part, prepared to beg him not to put them on me, but I manage to swallow down my pleas at the last moment. I will not give him the satisfaction of begging.
“Here we are…” He fits the strange cuffs over my limp wrists, latching them shut with a firm clicking sound. The smooth stone is frigid against my skin, cold enough to induce frostbite. Otherwise, I feel no different.
Yet.
“They look lovely on you, Rhya. Just lovely. Don’t you agree?”
I glare up at him, teeth clenched.
“Ah. Well. I’m sure you’ll soon forget they’re even there.” He smirks, like he’s party to a joke I do not understand. “Now that you’re properly outfitted, I’d love to see if some of the rumors I’ve heard about wind weavers are true. Namely…that you are quite opposed to confinement.”
My throat closes up.
No.
No.
No.
Not that.
Anything but that.
“I have crafted a new cage, made especially for you. I did not think I would have a chance to use it so soon. But now…” His lifeless smile sends a chill straight down to the fabric of my soul. “I think we should see how you fare inside it.”
Without warning, I am lifted from the sand by two soldiers—one gripping my wrists, the other my ankles. My body is so weak, I can hardly even struggle as they carry me to the edge ofa deep pit. My maegic is distant, the storms inside me dissipated to an intangible wisp. My mind feels muddled by more than panic, my thoughts fraying into tatters.
Is this the effect of the cuffs? Are they already working to poison my senses against me?
“It used to be a well before the water dried up,” Efnysien says conversationally. “It goes quite far down. But don’t worry about the arachnidae or sandwyverns. They will not be able to claw their way in, no matter how they try. The walls are fully lined with iron, you see.”
I choke back a sob of pure terror as the men begin to swing me out over the edge of the pit like you’d heave a bale of hay or a heavy bag of flour, gaining momentum with each oscillation.
“I think we’ll start with a month. That should give you some time to settle in before I check on you.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss.
He smiles placidly. “Two months.”
Melité giggles somewhere out of sight.
“Go. To. Hell.”