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02 WRITHING IN THE DARK
—PAINTED along the spines of seven noble warriors is a saying written in a language long forgotten to the living world. Starting at the tailbone and rising to the very cusp of their skull is a series of jagged characters and curving symbols. The raw translation has been lost over the years, and its meaning butchered to suit the needs of the greedy, but the power embedded in the skin still lives.
To them and theirs, it simply translates to: For my Lord and Court I will sacrifice.
It is a promise to surrender everything—mind, body, and soul—to their home and High Lord. It is a promise to defend it all until their last breath. It is a promise to live and die with loyalty and devotion.
An honor, to be chosen by the Divine string of fate woven by the very Mother herself. An honor, to be the sword and the shield.
But to some, it is a heavier burden.
In the night, she feels it—this promise she is supposed to keep—and it burns. Sharpened claws dig into her back and shred her to pieces from the inside out.
Because she has failed.
Every morning, noon, and terrible night, she fails.
Kazimyrah fails to stop the female of flaming hair who now sits on a throne of lies and deceit. She fails to stop her from taking the High Lord of the Night Court away from the safety of her arms. She fails to do her sworn duty.
Forty-three times, she's tried, and forty-three times she's paid the price.
And it's killing her slowly.
The dungeon is too familiar with her anguished screams, with her blood, her sweat, and her tears. Its six all-encompassing walls are familiar with her agony. They know the frantic way she pleads, not for herself, but for the male with violet eyes who is locked away in a prison of his own. They know the way her voice cracks in two when her mind is pushed beyond its breaking point.
They know the way she slowly begins to welcome dark oblivion like an old lover.
The ones who dwell down there, as well, are intimately acquainted with her suffering. The creature, the horrid monster, the Attor, who stands by the Witch-turned-Deceiver, is the guardian's vicious warden. And he has no reserves for mercy or for pity. He is made of hate, and so hate he reaps—upon her and her back.
There's a raspy cackle that spurts from his lips as he brings down another lashing to her shoulder blades. Blood trails in rivers down her ribs and hips before falling to the stone floor where she's yielded her body and mind to the torture. Her palms press harder into the wall to conceal their shaking, but the quivering elbows betray her and rattle the chains connected to her wrists. He brings down another wave of pain without mercy.
