Page 10 of Taken By The Dark Three
Another crackle answers my defiance. My muscles seize under the sizzling jolt. This time, a sharp exhale escapes me.My wrists jerk in the cuffs. My captor leans closer, inhaling my reaction like a sick thrill. His voice lowers. “Name. Then the child’s location. Then your mission. We’ll see how talkative you become once your nerves are on fire.”
I grit my teeth, willing composure to remain. “I’ll tell you this much: you’re going to regret keeping me alive.”
He strokes the rod against my collarbone, letting the threat hover. A cold sweat beads on my neck. “I see,” he murmurs. “Well, we can do this the hard way.”
The rod crackles again, pressing onto my skin with enough force to make my vision flicker. Pain flares in bright streaks across my body, yet I refuse to scream. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood. My toes curl against the clammy floor. Through the haze, I force my gaze to remain locked on him, letting my contempt show.
When the voltage recedes, my limbs feel limp. Still, I refuse to beg. I cling to the raw anger fueling my endurance. He steps back, smirking as though I’m a trained animal. My mind races. If they keep me in these wards for too long, my magic might wither from lack of use, and then I won’t have a chance to fight back.
He’s about to strike again when the cell door scrapes open once more. A pair of footsteps enter. One is measured, commanding, echoing with authority. The other, lighter. I sense multiple presences, all exuding that distinct dark elf arrogance. My tormentor turns, startled.
A voice rings out. “Sathran, that’s enough.”
The new arrival steps into the torchlight. He’s tall, lean, with inky hair bound into a sleek knot. A faint ring of silver glimmers around his pupils. There’s an elegance to his stance, a predatory calm that sets him apart from the brutish soldier. His obsidian skin is flawless, free of the scars that mar the lesser ranks. I suspect he’s some sort of noble or high-caste mage. The torchlight gilds his face, revealing sharply angled cheekbones.
He studies me, dark eyes calculating. “Lord Zareth,” my tormentor stammers. “I was merely?—”
Zareth holds up a hand. “Yes, I can see you enjoying yourself far too much. The orders were to keep her alive, not reduce her to a gibbering wreck.” He fixes Sathran with a cold stare. “Step aside.”
Sathran bristles but obeys, retreating to the corner. Zareth shifts his attention to me, letting his gaze roam over my restrained form. My breathing remains ragged, but I lock down any trace of fear. He steps closer, every movement exuding a refined menace, as though cruelty is an art form and he’s its devoted connoisseur.
He lifts a hand, brushing a loose strand of my dark hair away from my cheek. “So you’re the purna who nearly ignited Lowtown. And apparently, you also shielded a child from capture.” His voice is silken, laced with faint amusement. “Our dear Commander Vaelith brought you in. Lucky for us, you’re still intact.”
I grind out, “If by intact, you mean chained and jolted. Yes, I’m just thrilled.”
His lips tilt upward. “Such spirit. I admire that.” He runs his fingers along a faint mark on my arm, where the rod’s crackling force left a blister. “You must understand that we can’t have you unleashing mayhem in Orthani’s streets.”
I meet his gaze, letting him see the hatred in my eyes. “I don’t plan on giving you a choice about what I unleash.”
He laughs softly, a low, resonant sound that somehow raises the hairs on my neck. “You do amuse me. Perhaps you’ll amuse the court as well. But first, we’d like some answers.”
Sathran in the corner shifts impatiently, but he doesn’t dare interrupt. Zareth lifts his chin in a silent command. Another figure steps forward—a petite dark elf woman carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. She keeps her head bowed, as if deferring toZareth’s rank. When she sets the bowl on a nearby table, I realize the water shimmers with an odd greenish luminescence, likely infused with a mild alchemical agent.
Zareth gestures at the bowl. “We have a choice: do we continue this dance of pain, or shall we make it simpler for all of us?”
My upper lip curls. “Ask your questions. See if my answers satisfy.”
He arches a sleek brow. “Where is the child?”
I say nothing, letting the silence grow thick. A mocking sneer graces Zareth’s features. He dips the cloth into the glimmering liquid, wringing it out slowly. “You realize if you remain uncooperative, we’ll use more inventive methods. Commander Vaelith may have insisted we keep you functional, but he didn’t forbid us from causing you… distress.”
The cloth drips, splashing pale droplets onto the floor. Zareth steps closer, pressing the damp fabric lightly against my forearm. A chill seeps in, followed by a sharp sting that snakes through my veins. My muscles tense, breath catching at the sudden, biting sensation.
“It’s a mild irritant,” he murmurs, “that can become a searing affliction if we let it soak into your skin for too long.” He trails the cloth up my arm, each inch lighting up with prickling heat. “All you have to do is tell us about the child. Where is she now?”
I clench my jaw, refusing to let a whimper escape. “I don’t answer to you.”
He smiles, and there’s something decadent in his cruelty. “Your choice.” He slides the cloth across my collarbone, leaving a burning tingle in its wake. I suck in a hissing breath. The sensation intensifies, like thousands of tiny needles pressing into every nerve. My heart thrums with fury at how he toys with me.
Sathran watches from the side, arms folded, clearly annoyed that Zareth interrupted his fun. The woman stands by, eyes lowered. The entire room feels charged with dark tension.
Zareth’s voice takes on a purr. “If you persist in silence, I can escalate your pain to unimaginable depths. I’ve broken minds far stronger than yours.”
I glare, ignoring the sweat forming at my temples. “You’ll find I’m not so easy to break.”
He chuckles. “You have a strong body, no doubt. But minds… those can unravel so delicately.” He sets the cloth aside, lifting his hand to trace a cool fingertip along the side of my face. A faint brush of energy trails behind his touch, as though he’s scanning for an opening. My lips press together. I recognize the slight hum of psionic infiltration—he’s trying to slip inside my thoughts.
I clamp down on every protective mental barrier I have. My head pounds under the strain, forcing me to lock eyes with him in a silent mental duel. He narrows his gaze, evidently feeling my resistance. Sweat beads on my skin, partly from the irritant’s sting and partly from fighting off his psychic push.
