Page 33 of Vasmora

Another vicious thud told me whatever was on the other side seemed perturbed by my voice. It didn’t speak back to me, didn’t give any indication if it was mancer.

Seconds ticked off, while I silently contemplated what it might be.

At no further thumping, I settled to rest my elbows atop my knees. Whatever it’d been, could it be any worse than Loyce?

Or the captain, for that matter?

Heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor, their cadence consistent, like a march. Not a guard, or the captain. No, they were far more disciplined.

A clank of the door. The creak of a hinge.

Blinding light filtered in, and I scooted myself back to the wall where my weapons hid in a small recess of stone.

“Seven hells, it reeks in here,” General Loyce said, stepping inside the room. “Move her to another cell. I can hardly stand it.”

Two guards rounded her and strode toward me, and as much as I’d have loved to fight them, the prospect of leaving my cell was far too enticing. Both soldiers clutched my elbows, roughly dragging me to my feet. One unshackled my chain, while the other tightened his grip as if they expected me to run. The effort it took not to kick the kneeling guard in the face had me clenching my muscles.

I stumbled as they carried me between the two of them, out of the cell and into the lit corridor where even the ambient glow of the torches sent a shooting pain to my temples. The temperature warmed ten degrees or more, just by crossing the threshold, the air easier to breathe without the rot clogging my lungs. Squinting my eyes failed to quell the ache and blinded me to the surroundings I’d hoped to glimpse.

Every waking moment in the place was fraught with the efforts of escape, my senses overwhelmed with sounds and smells–running water from somewhere, doors slamming, rot and mold mingling with tobacco and stale mead. The greasy odor of burning meat and smoke, and the putrid stench of a compost cellar.

We passed rows of cells, the ones to the right of me enclosed by thick steel doors and stone walls, while those on the left looked more like cages with steel bars. Some stood empty, while others housed prisoners who appeared as though they’d been dragged through hell and back, their frail bodies bruised and scarred, covered in grit and blood.

A skeletal-framed man in tattered clothes sat in the corner of his cage, clawing at the air. He turned just enough that I caught a glimpse of rusted barbed wire wound tightly around his eyes, embedded in his flesh. The sight of it cast a chill up my spine.

Her victims.

We came to a stop beside a door on the right with soldiers posted on either side. One of them swung it open, and within was a slightly larger space than where I’d been confined since I arrived, with more light.

“Maevyth!”

At the voice, I craned my neck and caught a glimpse of the familiar face who stood reaching through the bars of a cage at the opposite side of the corridor. “Kazhimyr!” The mere sight of a him nearly brought me to tears.

A violent heave of my body threw me to the floor, the gravelly stones colliding with my knees in a painful burn.

“Maevyth!” Kazhimyr’s voice faded behind the slamming of my door.

I glanced around at the stone walls, at the floor littered with the decaying remains of bugs and critters, and realized I’d simply traded one tomb for another.

One without the remnants of Zevander.

“On your feet,” Loyce commanded at my back. “Face me.”

Every stubborn fiber of my being urged me to retaliate, to tell her to go to hell and laugh in her face, but I’d already wasted too much time, suffered far too many consequences, and for what? My defiance had gained nothing.

If there was one thing I’d gleaned out of all that darkness and silence, it was clarity of thought. True defiance didn’t come from refusing to bend, it came from learning to bend without breaking. Surviving Loyce meant learning how to stretch my bones in a way that wouldn’t snap my will.

I pushed to unsteady feet, biting back the anger pulling at my face, and turned to face her as she’d commanded.

A phony smile greeted me, brimming with nothing but veiled malice. While the sight of her disgusted me, a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips on noticing the jagged marking on her cheek, a scar I’d left there.

She touched her fingers to it briefly, her smile hardening to something more fitting of a vicious wretch. “Bring me the Orgoth.”

I vaguely recalled the word. Back in Eidolon, Rykaia had referred to them as exceptionally dangerous, though I couldn’t recall why.

Within minutes, the steady pounding of oversized feet echoed down the corridor, growing louder, and a giant of a being stepped into the room, followed by a soldier who must’ve fetched him.

Breath caught in my throat as I took in the Orgoth’s size, the cords of muscle that covered every inch of his body, the pale, icy blue of his skin, and long, white tusks that stuck out from his bottom lip. He didn’t have to prod one of them at me to know they’d be unbearably sharp, the way its very tip appeared almost translucent.