Page 127 of Shattered Jewel
“No!” Sasha shrieks again, pulling against her new chains on the wall. “Don’t!”
Instruments of torture are distributed by the initiates from concealed niches in the walls, and designed for maximum pain with minimal damage. Thumbscrews, bone saws, branding irons, spiked collars…
Accused witches weren’t just executed here. They were sacrificed to the Sovereigns’ lovely demon lord.
This scene is a horrific testament to the centuries of Sovereigns sadism.
Sasha screams again, her voice shredded with helplessness.
“Thank you, boys. Why don’t you prove yourselves and go retrieve the Wraithwood girl, since you brought us the wrong one,” the High Sovereign explains with a drawn out sigh, “but we can have some fun while we wait.”
Axe raises his head, and in a moment of stupefied realization, his eyes find me behind the pillar.
There’s no surprise; he knew I’d come. He expected me to be crouched somewhere unseen. Yet, his eyes plead with mine, not for help, but for forgiveness.
It’s then I finally see the unbreakable spirit that has kept him alive through countless horrors.
His lips move, forming a single word: “Run.”
Chapter 31
Axe
THE PHANTOM
My concentration fractures, splintered by the need to confirm Kaspian’s location. One poorly timed glance could unravel everything.
The Sovereigns can dissect my every gesture. Their malice is like a guillotine hovering over my neck.
I force myself to keep my eyes trained elsewhere, but the nervous twitch in my fingers spells out my anxiety in a language too easy to read. We are not alone, and it’s only a matter of time before the Sovereigns figure it out.
But Kaspian is here. My brothers are coming, despite what I’ve done.
The cold steel of the chains dig into my bare wrists and calves. The crumbling stone floor cuts into my knees. The Scourge Sovereign, shrouded in his scarlet mantel, is a grotesque silhouette above me, his porcelain mask hiding any emotion that is likely frothing at this lips.
But I am not his.
This room, these chains, they do not own me.
I salute pain.
And it begins subtly, a humming vibration under the layers of my skin the moment I notice the Scourge pull out his sacrificial ruby knife and swing it above my head.
He applies pressure on my nape, sending droplets of sweat dripping down my forehead, then leans in, his muffled laughter slithering into my ear canal.
He says a name, ripped from the catacombs of my memory.
“Marianne made such a lovely sacrifice,” the Scourge says through his sealed porcelain lips.
I roar, saliva dripping down my teeth, an unhinged sound reverberating around the room, a storm of pain and fury colliding headlong into sorrow.
He laughs at my outburst, the sound more cutting than knives, whips, or chains.
“She cried for you,” he continues, each word dripped in warm, malevolent honey. “A little nymph, begging for her big brother.”
Each word carves a jagged line across my heart, a fresh wound that bleeds raw agony. The memories of Marianne are like shards of glass beneath my skin, a ceaseless torment?—
I’m younger, maybe ten or eleven. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across a small, overgrown backyard. Marianne, no more than six, her dark curls long and untamed, is chasing fireflies.