Page 5 of Bite Sized Bride
The sound is high and shrill, echoing off the stone walls. It tears through the icy fortress of my mind, shattering my composure. My hands clench into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. I force myself to breathe. In, out. Slow. Steady. Do not look away. That is the one rule I cannot break.
“An interesting reaction,” Malakor murmurs, his voice a deep vibration next to my ear. He isn’t looking at Ren. He’s looking at me. His eyes are alight with a connoisseur’s appreciation. He is savoring my anguish as much as Ren’s. “Such empathy for acommon thief. It’s a flaw in your character, Mikana. A weakness we may need to carve out.”
The torture continues. I lose track of time. Vexia is an artist of agony, her work precise and unhurried. She uses blades that peel skin like fruit rind, enchanted tongs that heat from within, and whispers of magic that make a man’s own blood feel like fire in his veins. Ren’s pleas for mercy dissolve into incoherent sobs, then to choked, animal whimpers, and finally, to a terrifying, gurgling silence.
Through it all, I watch. I catalog the sounds, the smells, the way the green runes on the floor seem to brighten with every scream, feeding on the raw energy of his pain. I see now. The sanctum isn’t just a torture chamber. It’s a crucible. Malakor is channeling Ren’s suffering, feeding it into the very stones of this place, charging some unseen artifact dedicated to his vile god.
Ren’s body goes limp, his head lolling to one side. A final, shuddering breath escapes his lips and then… nothing.
Vexia straightens up, wiping a single drop of blood from a silver scalpel with a silk cloth. “He expired, my lord. Without confessing.”
“As expected,” Malakor says, his voice filled with a profound sense of satisfaction. He turns to me, and the look in his eyes is a physical blow. It is a look of ownership, of promise. It says,This is your future. I will unmake you piece by piece, and I will enjoy every moment.
He dismisses me with a flick of his fingers.
I walk from the sanctum on steady legs. I climb the stairs. I do not run. I return to my chamber and close the door behind me. And only then, in the suffocating silence of my tiny room, do I allow the wall of ice to crumble. A single, dry sob escapes my throat.
I will not be next.
The decision is not a thought. It is a certainty, cold and hard as diamond. I will not die on that floor. I will not be his next spectacle.
The storm hits an hour later, a furious assault of wind and rain that rattles the very foundations of the estate. It is a gift from The Guide herself. My cover.
I move with a purpose I have not felt in a decade. My plan is a tapestry woven from years of observation. The changing of the guard at the third bell. The blind spot on the western wall, where the refuse pile masks the lower stones. The baker who leaves the scullery door unlatched.
From my mattress, I pull a small, hard bundle I have been hoarding for months—a strip of dried taura meat, a small, hard cheese, and a waterskin. From a loose stone in the wall behind my cot, I retrieve my greatest treasure: a letter opener, stolen from the library months ago. It’s long and thin, its steel sharp enough to pierce skin. A pathetic weapon, but it is mine.
I slip out of my room, my bare feet making no sound. The corridors are dark, the torches flickering in the drafts. I press myself into the shadows of a tapestry depicting one of Malakor’s ancestors slaughtering orcs as two guards march past, their armor clanking.
“…heard the beast roaring all evening,” one mutters. “Vexia’s going to perform the mind-wipe soon. Says the last one wasn’t thorough enough.”
My blood runs cold. The Urog. They are going to peel away whatever scraps of his soul are left.
I force the thought away. I cannot save him. I can only save myself.
I reach the kitchens. The air is warm, smelling of yeast and roasted meat. A hulking figure sits at a table, silhouetted by the dying embers of the hearth. The head cook, a brutish Zagfer witha temper as foul as his breath. I freeze. He is not supposed to be here.
My eyes dart around the darkness. A stack of copper pots sits on a shelf in the pantry. An idea, desperate and risky, sparks in my mind. I slip into the pantry, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I nudge the stack with the tip of my finger.
They crash to the floor with a deafening clang.
“What in the Serpent’s thirteen hells was that?” the cook bellows, shoving his chair back. He stomps toward the pantry, a heavy meat cleaver in his hand.
This is my chance. I dart from the pantry, across the kitchen floor, and through the scullery door he left ajar. I don’t look back.
The rain hits me just like a physical blow, cold and sharp. It plasters my thin tunic to my skin in an instant. The western wall looms before me, a cliff of wet, black stone. I find the refuse pile, its stench thick in the air, and begin to climb.
The stones are slick, my fingers raw and numb. I pull myself up, finding purchase in the cracks, my muscles screaming in protest. Halfway up, a bolt of lightning splits the sky, illuminating the courtyard in a flash of stark white.
“Hey! What was that?” a shout from the parapet above.
I freeze, pressing myself flat against the wall, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“Probably just a branch in the wind! Stop seeing ghosts and keep your eyes on the gate!” another voice answers.
An arrow thuds into the stone beside my head, so close I feel the vibration through my teeth. They are shooting blind, a warning into the dark.
Adrenaline, hot and sharp, floods my veins. I stop thinking. I just climb. My fingers find holds I can’t see, my feet scramble for purchase. I haul myself over the top of the wall, my body scraped and bruised, and tumble into the muddy ditch on the other side.
