Page 4 of A Reign of Storm and Madness

Even so, as the guard puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes me down onto my knees, I feel my head begin to swim with old memories that I try and fail not to dredge up. No, no, not now. I need to stay in the moment. I need to focus. Fighting those old memories though as the Belladonna’s poison is working through my bloodstream is harder than ever.

I hear Niall’s sharp intake of breath a moment before I feel the calloused pads of the guard’s fingers at the back of my neck. He swipes my long silver braid out of the way, tossing it over my shoulder. The frayed strands flutter against my collarbone. Itchy. So damn itchy. I feel like little tiny bugs are crawling all over me. Not spiders. Spiders I could handle, but bugs with dozens, hundreds more legs. All of them sliding beneath the fabric of my skin to crawl over muscle and bone. I want to vomit, but there’s nothing in my stomach save for water and bile.

The guard locks his fingers against the back of my tunic’s collar and then he shreds it right down the middle. Cold morning air washes over my bare flesh. My eyes pop open and I hadn’t realized I’d closed them. The tunic before me sags forward low, almost too fucking low. The bindings circling my middle, keeping my breasts contained sag a moment later as, instead of using his fingers this time, he sets the edge of a blade against my flesh—a dagger, I belatedly realize—and slices upward.

The bindings fall away, collapsing towards my lower back and stomach on either side of my body. That’s it. There is to be no cushion, no barrier for these lashings. Just my skin and the whip of leather the man who steps into the arena behind me wields. The God, I remind myself as Axlan is not a man at all but a Divine Being.

I look back to see him as I hear several gasps throughout the crowd. Axlan, the God of Victory. The length of leather braided into a single long cord is held loosely in his hand. It cracks, the sound echoing throughout the arena as he sizes it up and gets a feel for it.

Fuck. Me.

I turn my head towards the crowd as the guard who’d brought me here barks an order at Niall. I can sense Niall’s hesitation, but he backs up a step and then another and another until they’re both striding from the ring and leaving me, bound and half-naked in front of the entire Academy populace. The various Terra in attendance throughout the stands watch with their faces blanched of color and their eyes full of fear. As if seeing me is a reminder of what will happen to them should they rise up against the Gods.

That’s what I am. A reminder. A warning. Damn Dolos.

Still, my eyes hunt through the crowd, seeking … I find them once again.

The Darkhavens.

I set my gaze on each of them once more.

Theos, Kalix, and Ruen stand across from me. Even if there’s no hint of smugness or amusement in their expressions, I find resentment bubbling up in my gut. Some logical part of my brain acknowledges how out of place they look amongst the crowd of other Mortal Gods—all of whom have taken their seats and are casually watching. None of them bother with the cushioned benches at their backs. They remain standing.

The three of them standing like prisoners themselves, waiting for their turn at the gallows.

Good, I think as Axlan cracks that damn whip once more, testing the loudness and strength a second time.

Ruen’s hands sink into the wooden barrier and railing between us as he leans forward. His brows are low over what I know to be midnight blue eyes. He mouths something to me, but I don’t know what it is, not before Axlan’s footsteps grow closer, not before the first lash burns across my flesh. Once it does, once blood begins to flow, I know nothing else but pain.

Chapter 3

Kiera

There is a roaring in my head so loud that it sounds as if the winds themselves have taken up residence in my ears. It’s louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. It overwhelms my senses, even the raw, open bleeding ones.

How many lashes have I had now? Five? Ten? I lost count so quickly that it blurs in my mind. Perhaps that’s the Belladonna working. Over and over again, the whip bites into my flesh and then drags downward, slicing through muscle and nerves.

Each mark burns through me, carving me open as warm blood oozes from my shoulders and leaks down towards the crack of my ass hidden by my trousers. The whip cuts so deep into me, I swear I can feel air on the bones of my spine.

I sag forward. Were it not for the cuffs and chains, I would be face first into the grit and dirt before me, uncaring of whether or not anyone can see my chest anymore. Nudity or modesty. None of it matters anymore. The only thing I can focus on is the spasming pain in my body.

By the twentieth lash, at least I think that’s the number we’re at, the pain fades away entirely. If I’m crying, I don’t feel the tears. If I’m awake, I don’t know. They wouldn’t continue if I passed out from the pain, would they? I can’t imagine anyone getting their rocks off watching an unconscious Terra being shredded, face down in dirt and sand of the arena’s pit, but then again—the Divine Beings are cruel creatures whose enjoyments I’ve never understood.

Dimly, I’m aware of my surroundings. The grit in my eyes and beneath my kneecaps, digging past the fabric of my trousers. Kneeling on sand is yet another pain that I must deal with. The quiet murmurs of the crowd are a low hum in the back of my mind. Their eyes, ever watchful and present, burn into my face. I feel all of them and none of them. My lashes flutter as something soft and gentle moves over my flesh. Water. I feel like water is being poured over me. As if my flesh isn’t shredded, but instead being washed and cleaned. All the sweat and dirt and grime that’s covered me fades away as if it was never there in the first place.

Every small scar and wound is soothed. The grotesque feeling of blood under my nails that I’ve carried with me for years disappears. It’s not real. None of it, but it’s nice nonetheless. What would it be like to be entirely clean again? To be blameless, sinless. It must be something like this, I realize.

The fluttering touch of someone’s fingers moves over my face, tracing my features, starting at my brow and then moving down on the outside of my face to my jawline. I let my eyes close completely, blocking out the image of my surroundings, of the Gods and Mortal Gods and the arena, and suddenly, I find myself somewhere wholly different. Somewhere … soothing.

When was the last time I’d ever felt soothed?

With my father? Perhaps. He’d been a strong man. Well taught and more intelligent than most others who lived in the Hinterlands. He’d been gruff and often stoic, and the rare gentleness from him had been short-lived. After he was gone, there was no one else left to be gentle. No one who cared enough to try for a bastard God-child who was more dangerous alive than dead.

The sun’s heat on my aching spine is no longer as vicious as it once was but simply warm. Feather light, those gentle fingers trace over my body, offering comfort. Without intending to, I arch for it, leaning into that relieving embrace. There’s a start from the invisible creature as if they didn’t anticipate my reciprocation. Then, before I can pull back to reality, it covers me wholly.

Arms around me. A hot breath on my face, moving down. It pauses over my lips and then touches my throat. A silent groan works its way up my throat. Without the pain I know I should be feeling, these sensations are far more sensual than I’d expected. The unknown presence eases away slightly as if realizing my discomfort with feeling this way.

When I open my eyes again, it’s not to find bloodied dirt and sand under my knees but soft grass that sways in an invisible breeze. I look up and up some more until I see distant mountains topped with snow. Flowers bloom all around me and for the first time in days, I finally feel warm again. All the ice that’s filled my veins has fallen away and I sigh in relief as the sun’s rays pour over me. My lips curve upward into a smile.

---