American Royalty III

Part 23: Not going to die here

The cold stone floor was slick beneath Kit's knees, the faint metallic tang of her own blood saturating the air. Her wrists were bound behind her, the coarse ropes biting into her skin, and her head lolled forward, chin grazing the fabric of her torn shirt. The room was dimly lit, a single torch flickering against the damp walls, casting distorted shadows that danced like specters of her fears.

A cruel voice broke the silence, sharp and dripping with malice. "You're stronger than you look. But let's see how long that lasts."

Kit raised her head just slightly, her lips cracked and dry. She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. But her body betrayed her—every inch of her screamed in agony, a testament to the hours she'd already endured.

The first crack of the whip split the air, sharp and deafening. It tore into her back, igniting a trail of fire across her skin. She hissed through her teeth, biting back a scream, her nails digging into her palms so hard she feared they might break through her skin.

Not again. Not here. Not now.

But the memories clawed at the edges of her mind, Tartarus rushing in like a dark tide. She could still hear the mocking laughter of monsters, the suffocating heat, the endless darkness that consumed her there. She had been tortured before, her soul torn as much as her body, and now the past was merging with the present.

Another lash struck her, the force driving her forward until her forehead collided with the stone floor. She clenched her teeth, blinking rapidly to stay present, to remember that this was not Tartarus. She was here. She was alive. She had survived before.

"Still silent?" the tormentor sneered, circling her like a predator savoring its prey. A knife glinted in the torchlight, catching her attention despite the haze clouding her vision. "Let's change that."

The blade traced a shallow line down her arm, carving into her skin with deliberate slowness. The pain was sharp, immediate, and unbearable, but Kit clenched her jaw, refusing to cry out. A fresh wave of memories surged forward—her screams echoing through Tartarus, Percy and Annabeth's distant cries lost in the abyss. She'd sworn to herself she'd never scream again.

The torturer leaned closer, pressing the blade just above her collarbone. "You think you're a hero? Heroes don't survive. They die alone, forgotten."

Kit didn't answer. She couldn't. The next moment, the knife sank deeper, tearing into her skin, and a curse erupted from the tormentor's wand, hitting her square in the chest. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, and she doubled over, choking, every muscle in her body locking in agonizing spasms.

Her breaths came in shallow gasps as the room seemed to spin. Voices from Tartarus echoed in her ears, overlapping with the present. You're weak. You'll never get out. You're nothing.

"No," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her lips trembling. It wasn't clear if she was denying her torturers or the phantoms in her mind. Maybe both.

The whip cracked again, and this time it sent her sprawling onto her side. Blood seeped from the open wounds on her back, soaking into her torn shirt. The pain was numbing now, a strange sort of cold replacing the fire, but her mind still fought. Fought to stay here. Fought to remember why she couldn't give up.

Somewhere in the haze, she saw the flash of a ferret scurrying across the floor, a surreal, almost absurd image amidst the carnage. It reminded her of the baby dragons she'd left behind at the Scalewiks', of simpler times when she wasn't drowning in agony. It was enough to anchor her, however faintly, to the moment.

"You'll talk eventually," the tormentor growled, his voice distant, distorted. "They always do."

Kit forced herself to lift her head, blood trailing from her temple down her cheek. Her vision blurred, but her determination burned like a flame in the darkness. Her voice, though hoarse and weak, cut through the silence.

"Not me."

The tormentor's laugh was cold and hollow, but Kit didn't care. She had endured worse. She would endure this too. As the whip cracked again and the knife bit into her flesh, she clung to the thought of her friends, the memory of their laughter and the warmth of their loyalty. They were waiting for her.

She wasn't going to die here.

Kit gritted her teeth as she pressed trembling hands to her side, willing the blood to stop flowing. She couldn't afford to lose any more. Calling on her powers, she focused on the moisture, on the blood itself. With painstaking effort, she directed the flow back into her veins, sealing the wounds just enough to prevent herself from bleeding out. The pain was searing, but it was distant compared to the raw terror clawing at her mind—memories of Tartarus, of relentless torture, threatening to drag her under.

She shut her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow. Not now. Not here. The flashbacks tried to take her, but she anchored herself in the present, clutching onto the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the cold stone beneath her, the sound of raised voices outside the room.

Her eyes flicked open, narrowing as she caught snippets of the argument. She strained to hear more, her body frozen as she pieced together fragments of words and phrases. At first, the meaning eluded her, drowned by the pounding in her head. But then the pieces clicked, and the realization hit her like a tidal wave.

This changes everything.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, the pain faded into the background. They could win. Whatever she was hearing, whatever was being fought over, it was the key. The edge they needed. The war wasn't over—far from it—but now there was hope.

The voices outside rose, then fell abruptly, leaving behind a silence that was almost deafening. Kit slumped against the wall, her chest heaving as the weight of the revelation settled over her.

The air shifted. A sudden, unnatural stillness fell over the room, thick and suffocating. Kit's head snapped up, her instincts screaming. And then, she saw her.

Hecate appeared without warning, her form radiating light so brilliant it made Kit squint. The goddess's gaze was sharp, piercing straight into Kit's very soul. She didn't need to speak for her presence to fill the room with power and purpose.

Kit's battered body trembled under the weight of the goddess's regard, but she didn't look away. Slowly, the pain began to ebb, replaced by a strange warmth, an overwhelming sense of clarity.

The golden glow surrounding Hecate intensified, enveloping Kit entirely. It wasn't just light—it was something more, something ancient and powerful, seeping into her bones and her very being. The room disappeared, the world reduced to that golden brilliance.