Page 82 of Vasmora

A low grunt rumbled in her throat, hand pressed to the deep slice in her abdomen, and she lumbered forward. “The two of you … are mine. You will never escape me.” Sparks flew with another clash of swords, her arms trembling, fighting for dominance. Her weakness had begun to stir his boredom. “Did she tell you … what I did to her?” A flick of her gaze toward Maevyth, and her mouth stretched to a bloodstained grin. “Her screams … were far more satisfying … than yours,” she rasped.

Zevander froze.

The words sank into his skin, like venomous fangs, their poison pulsing through his mind in hot, searing swells. Visions of Maevyth bound to a bed. Screaming. Ravaged. He’d heard stories of what she’d done to female slaves. Sickening tales of sharp objects breaching delicate flesh.

Something cold and dark crawled through his muscles, narrowing his vision as he turned his gaze to Maevyth. “Look away, moon witch,” he warned, forcing the words past clenched teeth. When he set his sights back on Loyce, his body shook with a rage he’d not felt in centuries. Blackness poured in from the fringes like fresh ink spreading across a page. The general’s laughter reverberated in his skull, fracturing to a sound of agony. In a blinding haze, he saw flashes of steel. Blood.

Gurgling screams.

He reveled in the sound of them. The thrill of her pain winding through him in euphoric waves.

“Stop!” Hands clawed at his arms. “Please!” The pitch of screams that followed gave way to an abrupt silence.

The fog that clouded his vision parted, the dull edges sharpening into focus. Zevander stumbled backward, air thin in his lungs, the last few minutes nothing but a blur in his mind. Flickers of blood and the wet sounds of rending flesh.

Matted blonde locks lay tangled through his fingers, and he lifted it for what dangled beneath—a bloodied stretch of skin still attached to the scalp, the crude carvings of an eye, brutally cut away. In his other hand sat a serrated dagger he couldn’t recall having drawn, his palm soaked in blood that dripped from his wrist.

Coughing and gagging drew his attention to where Loyce lay, chin tucked to her chest as she tried to sit up and awkwardly tottered to the side. Raw, exposed flesh glistened on the half of her face that’d been flayed, neck to scalp, one eye absent from its socket. She crawled on hands and knees, elbows buckling, toward the eyeball that lay just out of reach, blood trailing after her. With a trembling hand, she lifted it by its severed nerve and attempted to shove it back into its empty socket. The eyeball tumbled out and as if delirious, she reached for it again.

He stole a glimpse of Maevyth, who stared back at her, eyes vacant.

Expressionless.

Her screams were more satisfying than yours.

His jaw hardened, and he tossed the flayed bit of flesh into the pit, sheathing the blade clutched in his other hand. He strode toward Loyce, swiping up his sword from where he’d discarded it.

A widening pool of blood surrounded the general where she sat knelt only a couple meters from the pit’s edge, every gruesome wound he’d inflicted oozing onto the floor.

He wished he could’ve watched it drain slowly. Wished that every plunge of his sword meant one step closer to death.

As she drove forward for one more attack, Zevander sidestepped with ease. Hours of training had prepared him for this moment. He’d dreamed of it from the time he’d watched her palace fade behind him.

Another wild slash of her sword failed to hit its mark, her movements sloppy. Graceless.

He slowed his fight, making each step deliberate. Taunting.

She fell to the floor, and seeming to realize how close she’d advanced toward the pit, Loyce clambered to her feet, limping toward Maevyth.

The scorpion’s stinger crashed down, sending up chunks of marble flooring. With her path blocked, she twisted around and staggered in the opposite direction, only managing a few steps before the metal tip of the scorpion’s stinger burst through her shoulder on a spray of new blood.

Pain roared out of her, bouncing off the walls as she collapsed to her knees, weakly swinging her sword.

Zevander could feel the venom pulsing through the scorpion’s stinger, driving through her veins with every dull pump of her heart.

She’d likely not succumb to it, but it certainly made for a pathetic fight. “Don’t … look at me … with pity!” she growled.

It surely wasn’t pity in his eyes as he stared back at her. He felt nothing. Not even in the aftermath of his rage-fueled attack could he summon an ounce of remorse for her.

The pain she suffered paled alongside the unspeakable torture she’d inflicted on others.

He stepped forward. She stepped back. Perilously close to the edge of the pit.

A guard rushed in and ground to a halt, slowly backing away when he seemed to catch sight of the scorpion.

Zevander swung his attention back to Loyce. Her one intact eye rolled back as she tumbled backward, and he reached out to catch her arm. The sword she held clanked as it hit the floor beside her, and he kicked it into the pit. Like the clatter of metal and rough jerk of her body jolted her back to consciousness, she slowly craned her head toward the pit below. A gasp flew out of her, and her free hand clawed at his arm.

As if she’d suddenly realized the manner in which he intended to kill her.