Page 42 of Reign of Betrayal

I can barely hear over my panting breath and pounding heart. However, I hear the shuffling of feet close by. I break out in a sweat from nervousness of what to expect and the stagnant air in the cave. It doesn’t help that there is a sack tied securely over my head. Guided by my apprehender, I am made to walk somewhere within the cave. No one is speaking yet. I have no idea what is going on, but I hear a sound like water is being dumped into more water. It makes a splashing sound and then a male voice cuts through the air.

“Congratulations,” he says, his words cold and detached. “You passed the first trial. Now, welcome to the second.”

“Listen up!” a male voice shouts. “Welcome to your second trial. This trial will be a test of strength—not physical, but mental. To end the trial all you have to do is give up. Tell us you are done. Tell us you can’t go on, and we will stop. It’s that easy. However, if you ask us to stop, you will be brought right back to the Hollows. Some of you may die, some of you will quit, and few will pass.” He chuckles. “Let the torture begin!” His joyous voice is drenched with malevolent undertones.

A sack is tied over my head, so I can’t see the man talking. My hands are bound behind my back and my feet are tied together. After the man, no doubt a royal guard, makes his speech, I am lifted and dropped into a body of freezing water. The water comes up to my neck, lapping against my mouth. I tip my head back so my mouth isn’t submerged in the water. My breath comes in panicked, shallow bursts, and my hot exhalations cling to my face. The water is soaking into the sack, rising higher on my face, numbing my skin. My heart is punching against my ribs at a rapid pace; yet, I am shivering, and not just from the temperature of the water.

This is “the tub.” It’s the same as in the prison. Any prisoner here who has had the pleasure of visiting it in the Hollows already knows what this is. It is one of the worst forms of torture. It’s a way to break us, to make us submit to their every wish.

Before I can even finish the thought, hands shove me under. The water bites at my skin, a thousand icy needles stabbing every inch of me. I thrash, splashing everywhere, but the hands don’t relent. I see nothing because of the sack. I’m stuck in eternal darkness. The cold claws at my flesh, and my lungs burn, screaming for oxygen. My mind whispers that giving up would end the pain. That I could surrender, find peace.

Maybe I should give up. I could end it all. I just need to tell them. But how can I tell them if I am underwater about to drown? Maybe they will drown me purposely. Maybe I should just breathe the water in. I will see my parents again, see Larah again. Just when I think I can’t hold my breath anymore, that I might as well inhale, taking the freezing water into my lungs to help the fire within them, I am released, and my head shoots out of the water.

I gasp, desperate for oxygen, but the wet sack sucks against my face, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Calm down, I tell myself. I’ve survived this before. I have to focus, slow my breathing, take shallow breaths. Deep breaths only pull the cloth tighter. Before I can fully catch my breath, I’m shoved under again. Over and over, they dunk me, the cycle of agony never-ending. I hear men and women laughing all around when I am brought up for air—no doubt the evil royal guards.

How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? I literally have no idea. Time loses meaning in this watery hell. I think about just giving in, and breathing the water in. My body is numb, my mind sluggish. I brace myself for another plunge, but instead, I’m yanked out of the water and dropped onto cold stone.

I thud onto the floor. I don’t even bother attempting to move. Laying there, I rapidly take in shallow breaths, trying to ease my dizziness and sate my lungs. After a few minutes, my lungs are no longer an inferno but an ember. I am lifted to a sitting position with my back against something hard that I assume is the tub. A fist slams into my face, whipping my head to the side. I grunt, barely registering the pain before another blow follows, and then another. They pummel my face, shoulders, stomach, legs, chest, and a searing pain radiates from my arm. I realize they’re slicing me, tiny cuts that burn and bleed, filling the air with the coppery tang of my blood.

I scream, my voice mixing with the groans and cries of other contestants.

“Reign, it’s going to be okay! I am with yo—” Elm’s voice breaks off with a grunt as he’s struck.

“Shut up contestant!” a man snarls.

The blades continue their brutal work, shallow stabs and painful slices that don’t kill but hurt enough to test my resolve. I will not lose this trial—I won’t. It is just pain, and it will be over soon. I will not beg. I will not cry. I will not yield. I will not break. I hope. Eventually it will stop. I hold on to that thought until Elm’s agonized scream pierces the air.

“Elm! Elm!” I am greeted with a punch to the side of my head. I panic for him, my brother, my best friend. My only friend. The force of the punch is so strong that I am knocked onto my side. I am going to throw up. I begin to retch as acidic bile rises but doesn’t make its way all the way up my throat. Thank the gods I haven’t really eaten. It would be horrid if I threw up into the sack tied around my face.

“Shut it,” a voice booms.

The person above me sits me up, removing the sack from my head. I blink against the few lanterns lit. Even though I am sure they are dim, I have been in darkness for a while, and they are burning too brightly for my eyes.

The guard lifts me to my feet. I stare at his face, taking every detail in, committing it to my memory. He will pay for this. He has straw colored hair that is tied back at the base of his neck, and his eyes are the same shade of brown as pig shit. He has a thin little neck I could probably snap with the right amount of force. He watches me commit his appearance to memory and smiles.

“Onto the next part of trial two,” he sneers. He cuts the bindings around my legs, grabs my arm, and pulls me down a dim corridor carved into the cave’s stone walls. I glance over my shoulder, catching Elm’s gaze as he’s led in another direction. He gives me a subtle nod, a silent assurance that we’ll survive this, like we always have. We’ve faced horror before. This will be no different.

My hands are still bound, while I’m soaked, sore, and bleeding. My blood at least warms my frozen skin. We finally enter a room, which is so dark I can barely see. Blackness looms all around us like a thick impenetrable fog. Darkness seeps through every crevice, devouring the tiny flicker of a single candle placed in the room’s center. The flame seems trapped, swallowed by the oppressive gloom. Hooded and obscured, a cloaked figure steps forward, tracing a cold, blood-stained finger along my arm before dipping it into a chalice.

“Drink,” the figure commands. The voice is familiar, yet strange. Comforting yet terrifying. It is one voice yet multiple. My hands tremble as I take the chalice, drinking its contents without hesitation. Bitter liquid burns down my throat, and almost immediately, the world tilts. My vision fades to black, and the room spins.

“Remember,” the voice whispers, “it can be over whenever you want. All you have to do is ask.” My heart races. I know this voice, but from where?

A shiver courses through me, not from the cold, but from terror. My breath hitches, my pulse echoing in my ears. Hands press against the sides of my head, strong and unyielding, guiding me to the ground. My body surrenders to them, too dazed to fight.

Suddenly, light pierces the darkness—no, not light, a vision. Am I dreaming? A memory? Images form, growing clearer. I’m in a catacomb, cobwebs and thick layers of dust clinging to every surface. Pale moonlight streams through the cracked stone ceiling, casting narrow beams across the cold, muddy floor.

The mud squelches beneath my feet, leaving tracks as I walk toward a stone slab. My heart drops when I see who lies upon it—Elm. He’s still, pale, and unmistakably dead. I scream, an unending, anguished wail that ricochets off the stone walls. When did he die? How did this happen? Sobs tear through me, stealing my breath. This can’t be real. It has to be a nightmare. It can’t be real!

I look over and see Larah on the next table. I run over to her, grabbing her hand. Her fingers are blue and stiff. The sobs continue to wrack my body. My grief strangles me, and I hunch over and vomit the contents of my stomach onto the ground.

Gasping, I notice another slab—my parents lie there together, silent and still. I rush to my father. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his corpse. His skin is freezing, like ice. Gods, I miss him. He raises his arm, hugging me back. I lay there letting his rotting corpse hold me—not even thinking of what it means that a man dead for almost two decades is hugging me.

A scraping sound breaks the stillness, making the hair on my arms stand. I turn to see Necrums standing where Elm and Larah had been. Their talons scratch the stone, menacingly. Did they transform? Were they bitten or scratched? Did they touch the cursed roses?

I hear a hiss next to me, and in front of my eyes, my mother sits up. Her once radiant skin now gray, eyes void and whited out, while her jaw now hangs unhinged, gaping open with large teeth protruding out. Suddenly, I feel talons scrape down my back, ripping my skin open, while my blood pours everywhere. I look to my father, who is a Necrum now, too.

I fall back into mud, terrified. I can’t breathe. I can’t run. I’m frozen. Fear has paralyzed me. The Necrums are creeping toward me, closing in. Panic releases my body from its frozen state, and I run. My limbs feel heavy, every step a struggle, but I push forward, toward a hallway. At the end stands a barred door. I slam my fists against it, calling for help.

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