Caleb

The sting of the lash cut through the damp air, sharp as lightning splitting the sky. I bit down hard, teeth grinding together, refusing to give the guards the satisfaction of a scream. The leather whip struck again, biting into flesh that was already raw, already torn, sending a fresh wave of searing pain coursing through me.

"That's fifteen," a guard muttered, his voice muffled beneath the ringing in my ears. "He doesn't even flinch anymore."

It wasn’t true. I flinched. I felt every strike, every line of fire carved across my back. But I’d learned to bury it, to bury myself beneath it. Pain was a language I had been taught to understand long ago.

At Falcata, pain was a companion, an expectation. Kael Voryn had ensured that every recruit knew how to suffer in silence. He had called it fortification. I called it cruelty. Yet now, years later, as my knees threatened to buckle under the strain, I muttered a silent thanks to his ghost.

May the gods rest your soul, Kael. You old bastard, you knew this day would come.

The lash struck again, the sound duller this time, as though my flesh had lost its will to protest. My mind drifted, grasping at the techniques Kael had drilled into us: Let the pain become a drumbeat. Find the rhythm. Feel it. Ride it.

The whip rose and fell like a pendulum, steady and predictable. The pain dulled, shifting from a white-hot scream to a low, insistent throb. It was almost… soothing. My breathing slowed, the agony folding itself into something manageable, something distant. A lullaby for the damned.

"What's wrong with him?" one guard hissed, his voice tinged with unease.

"He's… smiling," another whispered.

I was. I hadn't realized it until now, but there it was—a faint curve of my lips, not from defiance or madness, but from survival. They couldn't break me. I wouldn’t let them. If anything, this pain was a reminder that I was still alive, still fighting, even if it was in the smallest, quietest way.

When they dragged me back to my cell, my body hung limp between two guards. My legs barely responded, my back a tapestry of fire and blood. They dumped me onto the cold stone floor like discarded refuse, the air rushing from my lungs on impact.

"Still breathing, I see," came Darius's raspy voice. He was crouched by the small hole in the wall that connected our cells.

"Barely," I croaked, forcing myself upright. The pain flared as I moved, but it was a distant echo now, a shadow of the storm I had endured.

Darius tilted his head, studying me. "You're not like the others. They'd be screaming, begging for mercy by now."

"Training," I muttered. "Falcata made sure we knew how to survive this."

"Falcata sounds like hell," he said with a grim chuckle.

"It was," I replied, my voice hollow. "But it taught me how to stay alive."

A moment of silence passed between us. Finally, Darius leaned closer to the hole, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They won’t break you, will they?"

I shook my head. "Not like this."

Darius exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between relief and disbelief. "Then they’ll try something else. Something worse."

The worse came that evening.

A guard arrived, flanked by two others, his expression a mixture of disdain and pity. "The king’s orders," he said, not meeting my eyes. "You’re being moved to the castle."

The castle meant servitude. Not as a soldier or even as a laborer, but as something far worse. Scrubbing floors, emptying chamber pots, and—my stomach churned—being at the king’s personal disposal. A slave in every sense of the word. A toy for his amusement. A body for his bed.

The guards stepped away, their heavy boots retreating down the corridor as they left to fetch additional orders. The faint clink of keys faded into the oppressive silence, leaving only the distant drip of water and the dull throb of my wounds.

"Darius," I hissed, sliding closer to the small hole in the wall. His face appeared almost instantly, shadowed and grim.

"Well," he drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips, "looks like your grand tour of the castle’s finest filth is about to begin. Lucky you."

"Listen to me, Darius. While I’m up there, you keep doing what you’ve been doing—gathering intel. Anything, no matter how small. Guard rotations, supplies, whispers of unrest. All of it."

Darius nodded, his smirk fading into something more serious. "Got it. And what about you? What’s your grand plan once you’re the king’s favorite mop?"

"I’ll come for you," I said firmly. "When the time is right, I’ll get you out. Both of us."

A flicker of something passed over his face—hope, maybe disbelief. Then his grin returned, sharp and defiant. "You better. I’m not exactly fond of the decor down here."

"I mean it, Darius," I pressed. "I’m not leaving you behind. Just… keep your head down. Stay alive. I’ll find a way."

He studied me for a long moment before nodding. "I believe you, Caleb. If anyone can pull off the impossible, it’s you." Then his grin widened. "But when you do, you better kick that bastard king’s ass so hard he forgets how to sit on his fancy throne."

A laugh bubbled out of me, unexpected and raw. It hurt—everything hurt—but it felt good, too. "Deal," I said, extending my hand through the hole.

Darius clasped it firmly, his grip warm and steady. "See you on the other side, rebel leader."

"See you on the other side," I echoed, the promise settling like steel in my chest.

The sound of returning footsteps shattered the moment. We both pulled back, retreating into the shadows of our respective cells.

The guards yanked me out of my cell, their iron grips bruising against my arms as they dragged me up the narrow stone stairwell. The damp chill of the dungeons gave way to a musty warmth, the flickering torchlight casting strange shadows on the walls.

"Gods above," one of the guards muttered, wrinkling his nose. "You reek, rebel."

"Hard to smell like roses when you’re rotting in a cell," I shot back, my voice hoarse but steady. The guard responded with a sharp tug, nearly making me stumble.

We reached a wide hall lined with ornate stonework—so different from the stark, lifeless walls below. The contrast was jarring. As they pulled me forward, I glimpsed polished wooden doors and heavy tapestries depicting battles I wasn’t sure the king’s forces had actually won.

At the end of the hall, they stopped before a large door. One guard pushed it open, revealing a small chamber with a bed, a basin, and… a tub. My eyes narrowed in confusion.

"What's this?" I rasped, glancing between them.

"You’re to clean up," one guard said, his tone dismissive. "His Majesty won’t have you stinking up his chambers."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

My stomach churned. His chambers.

The guard motioned to someone in the hall. "Laina! Get in here."

A young woman slipped into the room, her hands clasped nervously before her. Her hair was pulled back neatly, her plain dress marking her as one of the castle’s staff. She glanced at me briefly before lowering her gaze.

"Prepare the prisoner," the guard ordered. "Wash him up. But he stays shackled."

Laina hesitated, her eyes darting between me and the guards. "Shackled? How am I to—?"

"Figure it out," the guard snapped, clearly disinterested in her protests. "We’ll be just outside. Don’t take all day."

They stepped out, closing the door behind them. I heard their heavy boots shuffle as they stood watch just beyond the threshold. For a moment, the room was eerily quiet.

Laina turned to me, her expression soft but cautious. "Let’s get you cleaned up," she said gently, moving toward the tub.

I stood motionless as she began filling it with water from a nearby basin, the steam curling into the cool air. When she turned back to me, her gaze lingered on the torn and bloodied remnants of my shirt.

"You’ll need to take that off," she said, her voice hesitant.

When I didn’t move, she stepped closer and reached for the fabric herself. Her hands were small, trembling slightly as they brushed against my skin. I flinched instinctively, my breath hitching.

"It’s alright," she murmured, her tone soothing. "I’m not going to hurt you."

Her words, soft as they were, did little to ease the tension in my shoulders. She peeled away the shirt, revealing the crisscrossing mess of lashes that marred my back. Her sharp intake of breath was audible.

"These wounds…" she began, her voice faltering. "They’ll fester if they’re not treated. How long have they been like this?"

I didn’t answer. What was the point? Her concern was fleeting—necessary only because the king had commanded me alive.

Laina straightened, her expression hardening. She marched to the door and called through it, "Fetch a healer."

The guards' muffled voices carried back, dismissive. "He’s not getting a healer. The king’s orders were to wash him, nothing more."

"If he dies of infection, what do you suppose His Majesty will say?" she shot back, her tone sharper now. "Do you think he’ll be pleased?"

A long pause followed. Then, begrudgingly, one of the guards growled, "Fine. I’ll see what I can do."

Laina turned back to me, her hands moving to the ties of my trousers. I stiffened, every muscle in my body coiling like a spring. She paused, sensing my discomfort.

"You’ve been through enough," she said softly. "I’m just here to help, I promise."

I let out a slow breath and nodded once, the faintest motion of permission. She continued, her movements careful and deliberate, as though handling something fragile.

When she finally guided me into the tub, the warm water bit at my wounds, the sting sharp and immediate. I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, gripping the edges of the tub until my knuckles turned white.

"I’m sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll be as gentle as I can."

She began washing the grime from my skin, her touch featherlight. Despite her care, my body flinched instinctively each time her hands passed over a lash mark. My mind screamed at me to resist, to shove her away, to do anything but sit here, exposed and vulnerable.

But her presence was… different. There was no malice, no cruelty. Only quiet determination.

Laina dipped a cloth into the water and pressed it against one of the deeper lashes on my back. I tensed, but she shushed me gently, her voice soft and reassuring.

"I know it hurts," she murmured. "But it has to be done."

I bit back a retort, choosing instead to focus on the rhythm of her movements. The steady splash of water, the warmth seeping into my skin—it was almost enough to drown out the reality of my situation.

Almost.

When Laina finished washing me, she helped me out of the tub and wrapped a coarse towel around my waist. My skin burned from the scrubbing, and the wounds on my back pulsed angrily, but for the first time in weeks, I felt marginally human. She gestured toward the bed, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Lie down," she said softly. "Your wounds are still bleeding. They need more than just water."

Before I could argue, the door creaked open. One of the guards poked his head inside, scowling. "The elf is here."

Laina straightened, relief flashing across her face. "Good. Bring her in."

The guard stepped aside, and a figure entered the room with measured grace. The elf’s raven-black hair cascaded down her back, contrasting sharply with her pale complexion. Her eyes, deep and unfathomable, briefly met mine before lowering respectfully.

"This is Isolde," Laina said, her tone softer than before. "She’s… well, she’ll help."

Isolde said nothing, her expression neutral. She set down a small satchel, her hands moving efficiently to retrieve an assortment of salves, needles, and bandages.

"Thank you for coming," Laina added, her voice tinged with gratitude. "I know how hard this is."

Isolde glanced at her, offering a faint nod but no words. Laina turned to me. "Lie down," she repeated, guiding me onto the bed. Together, they maneuvered me onto my stomach, the rough mattress scraping against my skin.

As Isolde began her work, I noticed her silence—not the kind born of timidity, but something deeper, deliberate. She wasn’t silent by choice. She couldn’t speak.

Isolde’s movements were precise, almost mechanical. She dabbed a pungent salve onto my wounds, the sting making me flinch. Laina stayed close, her voice a steady murmur as she addressed the elf. "These lash marks are deep. Will they scar?"

Isolde met her gaze, her expression unreadable, and nodded her head slightly. Then she gestured to the salve and mimicked the motion of rubbing it in. Understanding the silent instruction, Laina nodded and reached for a cloth.

"I’ll help," she said, glancing at me. "It might sting."

"It already does," I muttered, my voice rough.

Laina chuckled softly, though the sound was tinged with unease.

When Isolde finished stitching me up, she gestured to Laina, indicating a bandage. Together, they wrapped my torso, the tightness of the bindings both painful and stabilizing. Laina sighed when they were done, stepping back to survey their work.

The guards’ voices were a low hum beyond the door. Laina hesitated, then glanced at me, her expression a mix of curiosity and trepidation.

"Is it true?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "What they say about you?"

Isolde shot her a sharp look, her hands freezing mid-motion. She reached out and touched Laina’s arm, a clear warning. But Laina shook her head, her curiosity outweighing her caution. "I just want to know. Did you… lead the rebellion?"

I glanced toward the door, ensuring the guards weren’t listening, then met her gaze. "Yes," I said quietly. "We planned to imprison the king. To stop him from hurting anyone else."

Her eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. "You mean… you weren’t trying to kill him?"

"No," I said, my voice steady despite the weight of the confession. "But I won’t deny we’ve caused chaos."

Laina’s shoulders slumped, her expression shifting to something softer, almost wistful. "I just… I just want to see my family again. My little brother… he’s only ten. He’s all alone back home."

My throat tightened at the longing in her voice. "I’m sorry," I said, unsure what else to offer.

She shook her head, brushing away the tears forming in her eyes. "It’s not your fault. It’s his." Her voice hardened, venom creeping into her tone. "The king took everything from me. From all of us."

Isolde placed a hand on Laina’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Her silent presence seemed to calm the young maid, who offered the elf a faint smile.

"Thank you," Laina murmured, wiping at her eyes. "For everything."

The sound of heavy boots approached, and Laina quickly stepped back, her hands clasped in front of her as the guards reentered. "You done in here?" one of them barked, eyeing me with disdain.

Laina nodded, then moved to the wardrobe. She opened its ornate doors, revealing a selection of finely tailored clothing. The fabrics shimmered in the faint light—silks, velvets, and brocades, all in rich, royal hues. She hesitated, her fingers brushing over a deep crimson tunic before pulling it out.

"This," she said softly, holding it up for me to see. The embroidery along the edges glinted gold, intricate patterns of vines and thorns curling down the sleeves. Beneath it was a pair of black trousers, their seams adorned with golden thread.

I stared at the garments, my stomach churning. They weren’t just clothes; they were a statement. The king wanted to remind me of my place, to dress me as if I were some gilded pet for his amusement.

"Of course," I muttered, my voice laced with bitter sarcasm. "Wouldn’t want me looking unpresentable for His Majesty."

Laina didn’t respond. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she knelt before me. She paused briefly at the sight of the fresh salve and stitches on my back, her gaze flicking up to meet mine.

"You’ll have to lift your arms," she said gently.

I complied, though every movement sent a fresh jolt of pain through my battered body. Laina’s hands were steady as she guided the tunic over my head, careful not to brush against my wounds. The silk was cool against my skin, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to the salve still seeping through the stitches.

She moved to the trousers, her fingers deft as she worked to fasten them around my waist. Her touch was light, but I could feel the tension in her every movement. She was no more comfortable with this than I was.

When she stepped back, her gaze lingered on me for a moment. "There," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re ready."

The guards glanced over, one of them letting out a low chuckle. "Let’s go. His Majesty doesn’t like to be kept waiting."

As they reached for me, Laina stepped forward again, her eyes flicking nervously between me and the guards. "Wait," she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. "The shackles… they’ll ruin the sleeves."

The guard nearest her sneered. "And? He’s not here to win any beauty contests."

Laina hesitated, her fingers twitching at her sides. Finally, she stepped back, her expression resigned. "Fine. But if they tear, don’t blame me."

The guard grunted, hauling me to my feet. The luxurious fabric shifted with me, heavy and restrictive against my skin. As we left the room, Laina’s voice followed, barely audible over the echoing footsteps.

"Be careful," she murmured. "Please."

I didn’t respond. There was nothing left to say. The guards dragged me forward, the weight of the king’s mockery pressing down with every step. Whatever awaited me beyond those gilded doors, I would face it dressed as the very thing I had sworn to overthrow.