The Volki

Chapter Eleven, Slave

Ten Years Old

Kneeling down on sharp, pointy rocks, I can feel the searing pain as they dig into my skin, piercing through my thin layer of flesh until warm blood trickles down my knees, staining the already blood-splattered concrete beneath me. The agony mixes with the shame of failure, tightening like a vice around my heart.

"How dare you return with failure!" Master's voice thunders, raw and venomous. His face twists in anger as he raises his silver-black thorn whip, the one he favors for these occasions, and slashes it across our backs. Each hit slices through the air, landing with a sickening crack. I fight to keep myself from crying out, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood.

"Number One, stand up." The order cuts through the silence, brutal and unforgiving.

I glance over as Nikita, fragile as she is, tries to obey. Her childlike frame shakes as she struggles to her feet, each movement marred with torment. The pain is too much, and she stumbles. Master's impatience grows, his anger feeding off our misery.

"I said, stand up!" he roars again, each word a lash in itself.

"Master—" I start to protest, my voice involuntary, raw with desperation.

"Number Four, did I say you could speak?" he snaps, his gaze darkening as it zeroes in on me.

Realizing my error, I bow my head in silence, swallowing back the words that could condemn me further. The threat lingers in the air, heavy and ominous. The only sound is our labored breathing, and the faint echo of blood dripping onto cold, unforgiving concrete.

Master's gaze sweeps over us, his lip curling in disgust. I can feel the tension build as he paces, his footsteps slow and deliberate. The air is thick with the scent of fear and iron, the coppery tang of blood. His whip dangles in his hand, dragging across the floor like a snake waiting to strike again.

I want to reach out, to help her stand, to tell her she's not alone. But I know better. Any hint of solidarity will only provoke his wrath further.

"You will learn obedience," he says coldly, turning his attention back to us as a whole. "Or you'll face the consequences."

With a flick of his wrist, the whip rises and falls, slicing through the air with a sharp crack that echoes off the stone walls. Nikita bites her lip, her face pale but defiant. I can tell she's trying to stay strong, to hide any signs of weakness, but the pain is too much, and a small whimper escapes her lips.

Master's eyes narrow, and I can see the darkness that fills them, a satisfaction in our suffering that he makes no effort to hide.

"Now, perhaps the rest of you will learn an example," he sneers, walking over to where I still kneel, head bowed low. "Or do you need a reminder as well, Number Four?"

My heart pounds as he stops in front of me, the shadow of his whip stretching across the ground like a blackened scar. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I force myself to stay still, knowing any movement will only make it worse.

"No, Master," I whisper, my voice barely audible, every syllable choked with fear. "I... I understand."

"Good," Master says, voice dripping with satisfaction as he turns to Heitor. "Administer thirty lashes to each of them—and don't forget the salt."

The silence deepens, the weight of his words settling over us like a suffocating fog. Heitor steps forward, his face impassive, whip in hand, his eyes never meeting ours. We are nothing more than objects in this twisted ritual, a show of force and submission.

I kneel, eyes on the cold, bloodstained ground, my body already bracing for the inevitable pain. Heitor stands over me, the whip coiled and ready. Without hesitation, he raises it high, the leather glinting in the dim light, and brings it down with a crack that rips through the air. The pain is immediate, slicing through flesh and bone. My muscles tense, my fists clenching against the agony that floods through me. I keep my mouth shut, swallowing the scream that rises, refusing to give Master the satisfaction.