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I smirk and keep marching her.

“You can’t keep the bad men alive if they don’t drink,” she argues.

Once we are a safe distance away, I release her shoulders and squat so we are eye level. Even at six years old, she’s too smart for her own good. Her thick black pigtails are dusted with fresh snow. That button nose is scrunched in annoyance. And her jacket is too thin for how cold it is up here. I pull it tighter and bring her hood up.

“Where is your mother?”

She stubbornly doesn’t answer, just grips the canteen tighter.

“Listen,” I start, giving her arms a gentle squeeze. “You know I have to do mean things. That includes not giving them water…at first.”

“So they want to talk to you,” she supplies, voice tinkling and innocent. “Why don’t you ask nicely?”

I chuckle. “Believe me, love. I’ve tried. But don’t worry, I will let him drink soon.”

“Promise?” She narrows her eyes into slits.

I hold up my pinky finger. “Promise.”

She holds it. “Peepa wants to talk to you.”

I groan. “I know.”

“He’s grumpy. Said you don’t listen.”

I shake my head, press a kiss to her hood, and stand. “Go find your mama.”

“Fine. But tell him I said this is from me.” She fishes something out of her coat pocket and places it in my hand.

I watch her run off, hood falling back in the process. She’s determined to get sick, I swear. Glancing at my palm, I laugh when I see what she gave me. It’s a rock. A rock with a smiley face painted on it and a little heart. Every time we bring prisoners, she wants to bring them presents. I don’t have the guts to tell her that they won’t appreciate them. Pocketing it, I make a mental note to add it to my ever-growing collection.

20

Saren

“No,” I whimper.

I’m back in my cage—the bars too close. Frozen straw clings to my side, my feet are bare, and I tremble in the low light.

Wait.

Blinking a few times, I glance up and see fabric, not a ceiling. There’s no sign of Matthias. I can’t feel him anywhere. I try again, certain this is some cruel punishment, but I can’t feel…anything. Hyperventilating now, I sit up, and my head cracks into thick bars.

“No, no, no,” I cry out.

There’s no shock or pain, but the bars are still there. I try to open the door, but it doesn’t budge.

This can’t be happening.

I can’t be back in here.

Fog blocks my mastery; a dull thumping pounds against my temples.

Scrambling back only a few inches, I collide with more cage. I can hardly feel my fingers and toes. It hurts to swallow—to breathe. Puffs of white escape my lips every time I do.

Why can’t I sense anything? Why can’t I use my telekinesis? What the fuck was done to me? I want to scream. It’s right there, building at the back of my throat, but what will happen if I do? Will the pain come?

Careful not to bash my head again, I start pawing at the cage, searching for a loose bolt, anything. I shake the bars, growl, and spit.