Page 2 of Bite Sized Bride
My quill stops. I do not move. I do not breathe.
“Don’t be an idiot,” his companion snaps from the doorway. “Vexia’s work is flawless. The beast is a tool, nothing more. It feels nothing.”
The smirking guard leans closer, his presence a suffocating weight. I can feel his eyes on my hair, my neck. “Maybe. Ormaybe it’s hungry. The master hasn’t let it hunt in a month. It likes to hunt. Especially something small. Something that runs.”
He’s trying to frighten me. It’s a casual sport for them, like kicking a stray dog. The pathetic thing is, it’s working. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, terrified bird. I force myself to remain perfectly still, my eyes locked on the half-finished sentence in my ledger.
He finally straightens up with a disappointed sigh and follows his partner out. The heavy stone door grinds shut, sealing me back inside the silence.
But the silence is different now. It is charged, thin. The distant roar feels like a promise.
I look back at the zanthenite heart. It pulses steadily.Thump-thump. Thump-thump.A countdown.
I pick up my quill and continue writing, my hand perfectly steady.
Function: The artifact serves as a memento of a significant military victory and a testament to the enduring power of House Malakor. Its aesthetic properties are of primary note, serving as a centerpiece for any collection of rare and powerful objects.
That is the official record. That is the lie.
In the silent vault of my own mind, the truth writes itself.Function: The artifact is a tool of slow, generational torture. It is a promise that my master’s cruelty does not end with a single death. It extends to sons and to daughters, a creeping rot that will consume a family from the roots up. It is a monument to a vendetta, and it will not be satisfied until the last beat of this stolen heart falls silent.
I finish the entry, blot the ink, and close the heavy ledger. My work for the day is done. I sit in the cold, perfect silence, the brand on my wrist burning like a fresh wound, and I listen to themonster in the dark below. I don’t just hear its rage. I hear its loneliness. It sounds a lot like my own.
2
KAEL
Cold.
The stone floor leeches warmth from my hide, a constant, gnawing cold that sinks into my bones. It is the only thing that feels real besides thered. The red is a storm behind my eyes, a ceaseless, roaring fire that burns away thought, burns away memory, burns awayme. What is left is a hollow space. An ache. A hunger that is not for food.
Stone. Red. Hunger. This is my world.
A scent cuts through the damp, musty air of the cell. It is sharp and clean, like winter frost and old power. It is the smell of the sorcerer, the one who unmade me. Vexia. Her presence is a needle of ice against the red fire.
Then comes the other scent. Cloyingly sweet, like rotting flowers and spilled wine, layered over the faint, metallic tang of cruelty. The master. Lord Malakor.
My muscles tense, coiling like steel springs. The massive plates of hardened skin across my shoulders and back grind together. The red inside me surges, a tidal wave of rage that crashes against the walls of my skull. It wants to tear. To break. To destroy the source of that scent.
But the emptiness is stronger. The emptiness is a chain, forged of black magic, and every link is wrapped around my soul. The rage is mine, but the chain belongs to him.
A grinding sound echoes in the dark. The iron door of my cell, thick as a man’s chest, scrapes against the stone. Light spills in, a painful, unwelcome yellow from the magical torches outside. It silhouettes three figures. The master, tall and slender in his dark silks, looking like a shadow given form. The sorcerer, Vexia, beside him, her platinum hair a stark slash against the gloom, her eyes holding a clinical curiosity. And a guard, his face a hard mask of indifference, holding a heavy chain.
The master does not speak to me. He never does. He speaks to the sorcerer. “Is the new collar ready?”
“It is,” Vexia’s voice is like the chime of broken glass. “The runes are reinforced. His… resistance during the last hunt was noted. This will correct the flaw.”
Resistance? I don’t remember resistance. I remember the hunt. The scent of fear. The chase. The kill. The master’s command fulfilled. The brief, fleeting moment the red was quieted by blood, only to return stronger, emptier.
The guard steps forward, the chain rattling. I do not move. The chain is cold as it snakes around my neck, clicking into the rusted, fused remnants of the old one. The metal is a familiar weight. It means I am to be led. It means there will be blood. The hunger sharpens.
They lead me through stone corridors, my heavy footfalls shaking the ground. The air changes. The damp chill of the lower levels gives way to a warmer, perfumed air. Laughter, light and brittle, echoes from ahead. The scent of dozens of dark elves, their expensive clothes, their wine, their sweat. Guests.
We enter a chamber. A circle of dark, polished stone, surrounded by a raised gallery where they stand, looking down.Their faces are a blur of pale beauty and dark amusement. They are here for a show. My show.
I am positioned in the exact center of the circle. The guard removes the lead chain and retreats, leaving me untethered. But I am not free. The master’s gaze is a chain far stronger than iron. He stands in the gallery, a glass of dark wine in his hand, looking down at me as a man might look at a prized hound he is about to set upon a rat.
A gate on the far side of the chamber groans open. Two more guards drag a creature into the circle. It is a minotaur. A massive being, thick with muscle, a shaggy mane of brown fur, and a pair of long, sharp horns. He is wounded, a deep gash on his leg weeping dark blood onto the stone, but his eyes are filled with unbroken defiance. He wears the broken chains of a captive, not the silks of a guest.
