Page 19 of Return of the Darkness
Issam and Jabir had offered the usual room at the Red Stones, but she decided it would be best to return when she could focus on the sacrifices. She would certainly offend one of the pillar heads were she to arrive only to use their torture chambers. The sacrifices remained at the forefront of her mind—and next on her list of objectives—while the other rulers attended to their assigned tasks. But first, justice.
Nyzaia surveyed the room, ignoring the dull throb in the back of her head from guzzling two bottles of liquor the night before. She had allowed one day to celebrate Kazaar, and the next to avenge him. Larelle’s words rang in her mind, reminding Nyzaia that her anger served only herself. Nyzaia pushed the warning aside. She did not care if she was selfish; she wanted to be—deservedto be.
A completely separate location would have been preferable, like a deceptive room, misleading Soren to believe she was being freed. Instead, the room was a modified prison cell. At least the darkbricked walls would remind Soren of her worth. It was nothing but a tool for Nyzaia, just as Soren had been to Caligh. The room would serve as a fresh location for Soren’s nightmares, and every time Soren fell asleep, she would see Nyzaia’s face standing over her.
With each step, Nyzaia splashed through the puddles on the cell floor. A large iron door, installed in place of the old, rusty bars, provided privacy and focus. The cobbled ground was dark enough to hide the extent of blood Soren would lose, with only two sconces illuminating the room. Nyzaia liked to control her flames to alternate the captive’s cycle of pain: blades that sliced and flames that cauterised, keeping her victim awake. Far below the palace, the cool temperature meant Nyzaia would barely break a sweat and could continue for as long as necessary. Crossing her arms, she assessed the devices hanging from the wall: chains, branding tools, a contraption that stretched the body. Nyzaia would touch none of them, except perhaps the whip, tempting her with new forms of torture.
Three knocks sounded on the iron door and echoed throughout the chamber. Nyzaia took one last look around the room, ensuring the single chair was perfectly centred, and the five varying sized daggers were displayed on the stool. Usually, she would have completed her deep breathing before such tortuous activities, but she cared little about being calm or composed. Instead of her usual leathers to commit such acts, Nyzaia wore one of her everyday lehengas, her crown still atop her head. Soren would sit and face two queens: the one whose realm she betrayed, and the one who would cut and expose all her secrets.
“Enter,” Nyzaia called. The iron door creaked on its hinges as Farid appeared, offering a simple nod. Jabir stepped into the dim light with Soren in tow. Nyzaia stilled, silencing her breathing, refusing to allow Soren a moment to confirm who she was meeting. The fallen queen appeared frail, her head lowered. Jabir said she’d refused to eat, perhaps still grieving the wolf. When Jabirshoved her inside, Soren’s bare feet stumbled on the damp, uneven cobbles until her knees thudded against the ground. Fallen queen, indeed. Nyzaia watched, assessing. She still wore the clothing from the battle, but the blood-spattered breastplate was gone. Only her dark green tunic remained, now awash with blood and sand. Her blonde braids, flattened by a blindfold, were matting in places, and the sand, sweat, and dirt accrued over the last three days was clear in her appearance. Soren turned her head from side to side as she slowly pushed herself up, struggling against the iron chains clamped to her wrists and ankles.
“I can hear you, you know,” Soren mumbled. Nyzaia tilted her head. Nobody usually could when she was in this state of mind, intent on vengeance and the task at hand. Nyzaia stepped aside, leaving a path clear to the chair. Soren’s head followed the sound.
“Walk forward,” Nyzaia commanded. Soren scoffed and lifted her chin defiantly.
“Am I here for round two?”
“Walk. Forward.” Nyzaia enunciated each word clearly, and Soren gave no witty retort this time. She scraped her feet against the uneven floor until her shins hit the front of the chair and instinctively put her chained hands forward, grasping the top of the chair before falling.
“Turn,” Nyzaia said. Soren did as she was asked and then sat—or rather,collapsed—into the seat. Nyzaia tossed her thinnest dagger, which grazed Soren’s cheek before piercing the wall. “Did I say you could sit?” Nyzaia sneered, abandoning her tone of indifference. Soren did not clutch her cheek in pain. Instead, she let the blood trickle over the scar already tainting her cheek. Soren rose from the chair again, facing the door.
Nyzaia stalked behind Soren to where her blade met the wall and tugged it swiftly from the brick. When she turned back around, Soren still faced the door, slouching. The urge to approach her from behind, tilt her head back, and slit her neck open in one clear swipe was overwhelming. Nyzaia’s face would be thelast thing she saw while she choked on her blood. That seemed far too forgiving, given what Soren had done to Nyzaia, Elisara, Kazaar, Tajana—the list of her collateral damage was endless. Squashing the internal voice telling her to kill Soren, Nyzaia tugged off the blindfold, allowing the dirty rag to fall into Soren’s lap. Soren blinked rapidly while Nyzaia circled back to face her. Her green eyes were dull when she met Nyzaia’s gaze. Grief burned in them, mirroring Nyzaia’s every time she stared at her reflection. Ignoring it, Nyzaia reached for her dagger, impressed when Soren didn’t flinch as she smeared the blade across her wound, painting Soren’s cheek in blood.
“Well?” Soren asked, lowering her head to avoid Nyzaia’s stare. Nyzaia would not have that. She moved the blade under Soren’s chin, forcing her head up.
“You will watch me the entire time you are in here,” she said, her eyes ablaze.
“Why?” Soren asked.
“So, when you look into my eyes, you will see the rage residing there and know I will never extinguish it. I will hate you until the day one of us dies.”
“And will I be dying first? Here?” Soren tilted her head, prompting a smile from Nyzaia.
“That would be far too easy. Would you like that? To be done with this life? To escape your guilt after everything you’ve done?”
“What did I do?” Her voice was high-pitched and sickly sweet as she frowned. Nyzaia clenched her jaw, trying to maintain her deadly calm composure. “Ah,Kazaar! That was it.” Soren’s head whipped around when Nyzaia punched her cheek. She laughed, spitting blood onto the floor. “Sore subject then.”
“Whilst my anger is fuelled by your part in Kazaar’s death, you are here to answer questions.” Nyzaia strode back to the stool to pick up a new, longer blade, the length of her forearm. She returned to the chair, twirling it between her fingers in the dim light. Soren kept her eyes locked on Nyzaia the entire time. “You’regood at following instructions,” Nyzaia hummed, assessing the fallen queen. “Was it truly that easy for Caligh to make you do his bidding?” When Soren said nothing, Nyzaia yanked her arm up, forcing their eyes to meet, while angling the blade at the crook of Soren’s elbow. “How did he sway you to his cause?” Still, Soren said nothing. Nyzaia applied light pressure to pierce Soren’s pale skin, but she did not flinch. “How?”
Soren shook her head. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. Not good enough. Slowly,
Nyzaia dragged the blade down Soren’s arm and watched the blood pool from the incision, before trickling down her pale skin and dripping onto the floor. Soren tossed her head back and grunted, clenching her teeth.
“Pathetic answer,” Nyzaia sneered. “When did you first meet him?” Soren brought her head back up to meet Nyzaia’s eyes.
“Young,” Soren said, clenching her jaw.
“Where?”
“Doltas.”
“Specifically,” Nyzaia probed. Soren frowned, thinking, as Nyzaia began a new line of blood along her arm.
“I can’t think,” Soren grunted.
“Did he appear as Caligh or the Historian?”
“Neither.”
