Page 22 of The Ascended
"I don't care about them," I spat. "I need to see my brother. He doesn't have any abilities to demonstrate. He’s completely fucking normal. Do you understand that?"
The guard's expression didn't change. "You could be seeing him in a few hours. But do keep it down—you're giving me a headache."
"We don't have a few hours!" I slammed my palm against the bars. "And I don't care about your headache. If you don't have the authority to help me, then bring me to someone who fucking does!"
The guard just huffed like steam from a boiling pot of water, and turned.
"Don't you dare walk away from me!" I threw myself against the bars again, the metal singing with the impact. "I'll kill you when I get out of here! Do you hear me? I'll tear you apart piece by piece!"
I kept screaming until my voice cracked, kept throwing myself against the immovable bars until my body was a collection of bruises.
Finally, exhausted and hoarse, I slumped against the back wall of the cell. My throat stung, and every inch of my body ached. But the rage still burned in my chest, a steady flame that kept me upright.
Thatcher was alive. That was all that mattered. And somehow, I would find a way to save him.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor again, different this time. Lighter. I forced myself to stand, ready to start screaming again if necessary.
Three beings approached my cell, and like the guard, they were clearly servants of the divine realm. Servants of Voldaris. Tiny drops of light moved beneath their skin, their hair floated as if on a phantom wind, and their eyes held depths that made me dizzy to look into, as if I were staring into the night sky itself.
"I understand that you are rather agitated," the leader said, her voice smooth. She was taller than the others, with silver hair that shimmered—tiny stars that winked in and out of existence as she moved. She held up a coil of those burning ropes. "But I would prefer not to use these. What happens next, there is no choice in the matter. If we can work together peacefully, we can avoid having to restrain you again."
I stared at the ropes, remembering the agony they'd caused. Butmy need to find Thatcher outweighed my fear of pain. I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it.
"My name is Lyralei," she said. "We are Dreamweavers, servants of Syrena, Aesymar of Dreams."
"Where is my brother?"
"I'm not certain of his current location," she replied, which was more honesty than I'd expected. "The contestants are housed in different areas depending on their circumstances."
It was more than the guard had offered. I studied her face, trying to read her intentions. Those eyes were impossible to decipher, but her tone suggested she might actually mean it.
"Where are you taking me?"
"The Aesymar prefer their contestants to be prepared for the ceremony. It would be... unsightly to arrive in your current state." Her gaze traveled over me.
I looked down at myself—torn clothes, blood under my fingernails, bruises blooming across my arms from throwing myself against the bars. I probably looked like I'd been fighting for my life.
"I couldn't care less what the gods think of me."
Her expression grew serious. "You should. They hold your life in their hands. It would be beneficial to have them on your side, rooting for you." She tilted her head, studying me. "I can tell you're quite striking beneath all this... distress."
I tried to calm my anger enough to think clearly. This was my first opportunity to leave this cell. I could use it to find Thatcher, to see if our bond grew clearer once I was out of this cage.
"If I cooperate," I said slowly, "you'll help me find information about my brother?"
"I will do what I can."
It wasn't a promise, but it was something.
"What exactly does this preparation involve?" I asked.
"Bathing, grooming, dressing you appropriately for divine attention," one of the other Dreamweavers said. "We will make you look like you belong among gods."
"I don't want to belong among gods."
"No," Lyralei said softly, "but that doesn’t matter."
The truth of it hit me hard. I was going to have to play their game, follow their rules, make myself into whatever they wanted me to be. All for the chance—the slim, desperate chance—that I might be able to save Thatcher.
