Chapter 14 - Tightened Bonds
Sylven’s new prison was barely larger than an overturned bucket —perhaps it had even been one. Its crude door, just tall enough for him to walk through if he crouched, had been cut out of the metal, then patched with thick wire mesh fastened with simple hinges of even thicker wire. It was locked with a loop of iron fitted into holes bored through an even heavier block of iron. The humans seemed to think these measures were enough to contain him.
But whenever he was left alone, Sylven wasn’t idle. He studied his cell like a puzzle, testing every possible weakness, noting every joint and gap where the wires and joints didn’t quite meet and could be slowly twisted apart.
He also scoured every space he could access for anything useful. Shards of glass, splinters of wood, rusty pins—it was astonishing what humans dropped without a thought. He sewed these treasures into his tunic, using loose threads pulled from its fraying hem.
But the humans weren’t careless for long. His jailer —the same cruel woman who had been part of the group of trappers—seemed to figure out his every trick. After neglecting him for a day, she had suddenly pulled him out for inspection, roughly patting him down all over. Her fat fingers uncovered the bent nail and glass shiv stitched into his tunic. Sneering, she ripped every scrap of cloth off him.
“No keep bad things,” she had said in halting Shy speech.
Sylven glared back up at her monstrous leer. She then slapped him in the face with his makeshift loincloth before tossing it into the fire, leaving him to shiver though the night with only some hay to curl up under.
Even naked and humiliated, he refused to shrink back, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him cower. His defiance earned him a new tunic—if it could be called that. Coarse, tattered, and barely reaching his knees, the rough fabric scratched at his skin with every movement.
The next time she searched his clothing and cell, she found nothing. Not because he’d stopped trying, but because he’d learned to hide his finds in places she wouldn’t think to look—in the cracks between the floorboards or under the little metal cup they provided as a chamber pot. He had to be more cunning than his captors. It wasn’t much, but it gave him purpose.
----------------------------------------
For the first couple of days of his extended captivity, he had been left with nothing but a thimbleful of water. But the first time the humans brought him food again, Sylven’s stomach churned as much from the smell as from hunger, The portions were enormous by Shy standards—more than a family could eat in a sitting—but they left a lot to be desired.
Crusts of bread the size of his arm were smeared with congealed grease. Meat scraps as big as his boots glistened with sticky glazes. At first, the occasional cube or chunk of vegetable offered some hope, but the seasonings were often overpowering—a cloying mix of salt and heavy spices that made his tongue burn. Once, he bit into a single peppercorn as big as his eye and spent an hour sneezing and heaving.
Sylven forced himself to choke down what he could, grimacing at every mouthful. He missed the fresh, finely chopped herbs and greens of home, their delicate balance flavors that danced on his tongue instead of assaulting it. But he knew he had to keep the food down and build up his strength. He compensated by spending his idle hours exercising to burn off the bloat, doing push-ups, jumping and running in place, lifting the heavy chamber pot, and wrestling apart the metal wires.
----------------------------------------
The evening after he had been fed, the woman opened the cell door, reached in and used a metal hook to yank him out. Dangling from his manacles, he was carried over to a table in the opposite corner of the room. Sylven staggered as he was plopped down, his tunic hanging awkwardly off his frame.
He glanced around the table and noticed more signs of the humans keeping and using Shy for… something. He noticed rough scratches on the wood in the shape of Shy letters. A few crude tools sized for their hands were strewn around a worn stool that was just right for someone his height to sit on.
The woman loomed over the table, eyes narrowing on Sylven. Behind her, the boy lingered hesitantly. She tapped the boy on the arm, and he timidly stepped forward and crouched next to the table, keeping his head at Sylven’s level.
“Good Shy,” he said softly. He pointed to the tools and mimed a hammering motion with two fingers. “Fix?”
Sylven tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, feigning confusion.
“Fix,” the boy repeated, this time holding up a small device with gears and springs. He set it on the table and pointed at it insistently.
Sylven didn’t move.
The woman barked something in their language, her tone making Sylven flinch. She pulled out a stick from her pocket and tapped it against the edge of the table, her meaning clear.
“No fix, you hurt,” the boy translated, his voice faltering.
Sylven crossed his arms. He had no intention of obeying their orders without a fight. “No,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite his growing sense of dread.
The woman’s face darkened. She bent over the table, blocking out the light, and jabbed him in the chest with the stick. To her, it was a mere twig. To Sylven, it was a club that sent him staggering back with the force of the blow. “Fix!” she shouted, making his ears ring.
Sylven glared up at her, his chest heaving. His body still ached from the clubbing, but his spirit refused to yield. He straightened up, standing as tall as he could, and crossed his arms tighter to his chest. “No,” he repeated in his loudest voice.
With a snarl, the woman roughly grabbed him. She slammed him down onto the floor and pulled up the tunic from his body with a single motion, baring his backside. Sylven struggled to stand, but she used her foot to pin his legs against the rough wood. Before he could wriggle free under its weight, she rested her other foot over his arms, immobilizing him.
Tugging at her boot, she pulled out a shoelace. She flexed her wrist and brought the leather cord down, hitting his back like a whip. The first lash made him cry out despite himself, the sting burning across his bare skin.
“Fix!” she demanded again, her voice low and menacing.
No,” Sylven growled, his voice hoarse but unbroken.
The whipping continued until Sylven’s back was crossed with red welts and he was barely conscious. But he had held firm. With a huff of exasperation, she strung the lace back into her boot and stormed out, leaving the boy to tend to the Shy.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
----------------------------------------
When Sylven came to, he was back in his cell. He felt at his back gingerly, it still stung worse than anything he had ever endured before. But the pain had been blunted by a cool salve that had been slathered over the welts.
From her pen, Vikka sensed Sylven regaining consciousness through a haze of pain. What happened? She focused her thoughts on the question, sending a ripple of concern through her connection to the Shy.
Sylven sent back a barely coherent response. Nothing. Just… stay quiet.
The bond wavered, the distance between them making it harder to sense each other’s thoughts clearly.
As Sylven sat hunched in the corner of his dim cell, his mind churned. The humans wanted him to submit, to do their bidding without hesitation. Every jab of a stick, every rough yank of the chain, every sneering word spoken in a language he barely understood, hammered at his will. Yet he resisted. He told himself it wasn’t just defiance—it was survival. But as he replayed the events of the day in his mind, a bitter realization began to gnaw at him.
“They’re trying to break me,” he muttered to himself. “Just like I tried to break Whisker.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with regret. His mind drifted to that day in the caldera, when Whisker was still a wild pika, full of energy and rebellion. Sylven had used spurs, knowing they would hurt, knowing they would push the animal to submit. He’d convinced himself it was necessary, that taming Whisker was for both their benefit. But now, stripped of his dignity, bound and tortured, he understood the cruelty of it in a way he hadn’t before.
“I deserve this,” he whispered, his voice trembling with guilt. “I deserve to know what it’s like.”
“Whisker,” he whispered. No. Not Whisker. The name now felt wrong on his tongue, a nickname imposed on someone far more intelligent than he’d realized.
Through the faint hum of their bond, a soft warmth stirred. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him, and something shifted—a deepening of their connection, like a puzzle piece snapping into place. Whisker wasn’t just a mount; he was a being with his own will, his own identity. And now, even through the haze of distance, Sylven heard him clearly.
“Uiska,” he breathed. The name came unbidden, but it rang true, resonating through the bond like a perfectly plucked harp string.
Sylven reached out with his thoughts, testing the bond’s newfound clarity. Uiska? Are you there?
The response came almost immediately, tinged with curiosity and relief. Sylven?
Sylven smiled for the first time in many days, feeling Uiska’s warmth flood his mind. Through the bond, he caught fleeting images—Uiska lounging on a soft cushion, nibbling on fresh greens, his ears twitching at the strange noises of the human world. The humans had treated Uiska with care, almost reverence, but Sylven could sense the pika’s unease.
How are you? He asked.
Good. Nice here, but… strange, Uiska admitted, his thoughts carrying a hint of indignation. Many big hands. Want to run. Go back home. Back to grasslands.
Sylven’s throat tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear Uiska’s thoughts, how much he’d missed the pika. He sent a wave of reassurance through the bond, letting it carry his determination. I’ll get back to you soon, I promise. Just keep watching them. Watch their habits, the way they move, where they go. Grow strong. That’ll help us run.
Uiska hesitated for a moment, then sent back a flicker of agreement. Will do. But hurry. Food good but strange.
For the first time since their capture, Sylven chuckled, hope surging in his chest. Uiska’s trust in him felt more tangible than ever before. The humans had taken everything from him—his freedom, his gear, his pride. But they hadn’t taken his bond with Uiska. They couldn’t. And now, strengthened and true, it was a bond that could defy even giants.
“Uiska,” Sylven whispered again, his voice steady. “We’ll get through this. Together.”
He leaned his head back against his cell, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Somewhere out there, Uiska was waiting for him. And no matter what the humans threw at him, Sylven swore he would find a way back.
----------------------------------------
The next day started out the same as the last. He was fed a hefty meal of unappealing food scraps in the morning. Then in the evening, he was pulled out from his cell for more “training”.
As he was swung over to the table, he noticed a new, large contraption set beside it. However, the woman and boy ignored the device and instead started with another mechanism being brought out—two spiked metal semi-circles held taught by coiled springs. He recognized its intent immediately: a trap designed to snap shut on something small, likely meant for small animals… or Shy.
“Fix?’” the boy pleaded with a tinge of desperation. “No fix. More hurt.”
Sylven shook his head, his manacled hands firmly on his hips. The woman didn’t waste any more time. She stepped forward with a scowl and advanced on the small, defiant Shy, dragging him over to the strange contraption set beside the table.
She brusquely pushed his back onto a large, wooden cylinder. To Sylven, it resembled the spindles the Shy weavers used to spin thread, but a hundred times larger. His manacles were pulled back around the spool, stretching his limbs taut against the wide, curved surface.
“What are you doing?” Sylven spat, thrashing against his bonds.
The trainer ignored him, making sure he was fixed securely before placing a hand on the spindle’s crank. The boy stood nearby, fidgeting nervously.
“She spin,” the boy said hesitantly, gesturing to the contraption. “You good? No spin. You bad? Spin.”
Sylven narrowed his eyes. “I’m not afraid of a little spinning,” he boasted, but his bravado faltered when the trainer turned the crank.
The spindle began to rotate, slowly at first. The world tilted and shifted around Sylven as he spun backward, his head lolling against the rough wood. The trainer cranked harder, increasing the speed.
Sylven clenched his jaw, fighting the wave of nausea that churned his stomach. The chains keeping him from spinning out into the air pulled painfully at his joints, the manacles biting into his skin. Each rotation jolted him, his body scraping against the uneven surface of the spindle.
“Stop!” Sylven shouted, his voice cracking as the world became a blur of motion.
The trainer didn’t stop. She cranked faster, the spindle whirring as Sylven’s protests turned into sharp gasps for breath.
“Good?” the boy called out, his voice edged with panic. “Say good!”
Sylven’s vision swam, his mind teetering on the edge of blackness. He gritted his teeth, refusing to yield, even as every nerve in his body screamed at him to give in.
Finally, the trainer stopped. The spindle slowed to a halt, leaving Sylven dangling limply from his chains
“Fix, or...” she said coldly, her menacing figure a blur in his dazed vision. “Spin longer. Spin faster.”
Sylven didn’t respond, his thoughts a chaotic swirl.
Through the bond, Vikka’s voice echoed in his mind. “You're making me dizzy. Just do whatever they want!” she hissed.
"Not... yet,” he mumbled weakly, barely audible even to himself.
----------------------------------------
After the spindle failed to break him, his oppressor squeezed Sylven into a tiny wooden box that closed tight. The air inside was damp and thin, the darkness absolute.
Sylven sat in the pitch black, every breath causing his body to scrape against the rough wood enclosing him. His wrists and ankles throbbed where the manacles had bitten into his skin, and all his joints ached from the strain of the day’s torment.
Without warning, the box jolted, dropping onto a metallic surface with a sharp clang. Sylven tumbled inside, the confined space amplifying every jarring impact as the box shifted again, striking another clanging wall. Had he been put into a metal bucket?
Moments later, fine grains of dirt began trickling through the narrow gaps in the lid, dusting his face and filling his nostrils. He gasped, but the air inside grew thinner with each shallow breath. Panic clawed at the edges of his mind as he sensed the load piled on top of the box become heavier, pressing down with suffocating force.
Sylven finally snapped and let his guard down, allowing himself to laugh—a dry, humorless cackle that quickly grew into full-blown hysterics.
“So this is what it’s like to be a Deepshy,” he gasped between giggles. “Down in the dark, buried under dirt... No wonder they’re all so cranky!”
The laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, his mind racing with absurd thoughts. Through the bond, Vikka’s concern rippled into his consciousness.
“Are you going mad?” she whispered in his mind.
Sylven paused, his laughter dying down. “Maybe,” he replied, though he wasn’t sure if he was answering her or himself.
In the silence that followed, broken only by his shallow breaths and the faint creak of the box around him, a new thought began to take shape. The humans wouldn’t stop—they would keep grinding him down, breaking him bit by bit until nothing remained of who he was. Before he would ever get to meet the other Shy that he knew they held captive somewhere close.
If he wanted a chance to escape, he had to change tactics.
“They want me broken,” he muttered to the darkness and dirt. “Fine. Let them think they’ve won. I’ll break things on my terms.”
The idea felt treacherous at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it clicked into place. Pretending to submit would give him better access to the information and resources he needed. It wasn’t surrender—it was strategy.