Chapter Five

Aflash of light penetrated Wilder's dreams, enough to wrench him back into consciousness. He woke in chains. The manacles were gone, but thick, heavy links bit into his bare chest and wrapped around his limbs, numbing him with their bone-chilling coldness, securing him to a hard metal table. His senses were assaulted by the now familiar acrid tang of the prison – blood and suffering and death. In the distance, he could hear the tortured moans and cries of the other prisoners, a symphony of despair that seemed to feed the tower itself. He didn't know if this was another nightmare, another vision born of the drugs they administered —

The chains were moving, slithering across his torso like snakes, matching those he'd seen shifting across the stone walls of the prison when he'd been dragged from his cell. Suddenly he was sure they were altering the fabric of his mind.

Real or not, he twisted in the irons, scanning the space around him. A map of the midrealms was pinned to one of the far walls, dark shading denoting the sheer size of Artos' forces, heavy ink outlining which territories the King of Harenth had seized. How long had the empath been building these forces?

Craning his neck, Wilder could still see his swords in the glass case nearby – if only he could get to them… He had to get out of here, to warn Thea and the others of what Artos had concocted in the shadows.

As though they could hear his thoughts, the chains tightened around him, to the point where Wilder's eyes nearly bulged out of his head with the pressure and pain. If his ribs hadn't been broken before, they were now. He rasped for air, sharp bursts of agony lancing through his chest as he did.

For the first time in a long while, cold, hard panic set in. Dread hung heavy in the sour air, clinging to his skin like a shroud.

Here in the underbelly of the Scarlet Tower, the Archmage of Chains meant to make him a monster.

The man in question came to stand at his side. ‘You are right to fear,' he said coolly, eyeing the cursed creatures at work around them. ‘For it's not just one of them I mean to turn you into, but something more… A true embodiment of the power that plagues the lands. Not just a soldier in an army, but a general. One who adheres to every despicable command I give.'

‘Fuck you,' Wilder spat, ignoring the pain and rallying his remaining strength against the bonds.

The jewelled inquisitor appeared at the Archmage's side. ‘Shall we gag him?'

‘Gag him? Whatever for? The shadows will enjoy his screams.'

Another flicker of brilliant white light sparked in the distance, but then it was gone. Another trick of his mind. What had he realised before? That on the brink of insanity, the tormentors liked to show their captors something good, something to save them from total destruction, so they could suffer anew.

‘Begin,' the Archmage instructed.

Wilder's whole body seized as the shadows came for him like vipers in the night, ready to strike, coiling around him, cold and relentless. He fought and fought hard. He'd sooner die than become a pawn in their war games against everything he held dear.

And then came the blinding pain.

Wilder bit down. He wouldn't give those bastards the satisfaction of his screams, he wouldn't let them —

In the distance, something shuddered, a faraway rumble that reverberated through the stone walls. The ground trembled beneath them. For a fleeting moment, there was a reprieve from the pain. Sweat, mingled with dirt and blood, trickled from his brow, stinging his eyes before carving through the grime on his face. Wilder panted, his chest straining against the chains, watching as the inquisitor rushed to a barred window on the far side of the laboratory and peered out to the corridors beyond.

‘What is it?' the Archmage demanded, his voice cleaving through the room, sharp as any blade.

The inquisitor craned his neck and replied unsteadily, ‘I don't know, sir.'

‘Find out.'

In a blur of fabric, the spineless jewelled bastard vanished from sight.

The Archmage's eyes bored into Wilder's, filled with contempt. ‘Is this your doing?' he sneered. ‘It won't save you.'

The darkness began anew, swirling in thick obsidian masses around them, taking shape as cords of sheer pain. Each movement sent more white-hot agony through Wilder, his senses heightened to feel every second.

On the verge of passing out, light flickered in his peripheral vision. Not the orange glow of a flame, but something else entirely. Something brilliant and blinding, something familiar…

The Archmage of Chains stumbled back from the torture table. ‘What in the midrealms —'

But he was cut off.

Gold exploded all around them.

Screams and shrieks filled the air as the gilded dust filled the space, settling on everyone and everything, including Wilder's chains.

He watched in awe as they sizzled across his skin, and fell away like ash.

The pain faded from his body as he threw himself from that gods-forsaken table. With the movement, his Warsword strength returned to his limbs, a warmth washing through him like a powerful wave. He felt nothing but energy as he found his feet and locked eyes with the Archmage.

Wilder offered a savage smile.

He grabbed the man by the back of the neck and, with a single downward motion, used his head to smash the glass case surrounding his twin swords.

Blood splattered, screams sounded, and this time, it was nothing but music as Wilder's fingers wrapped around the grips of his blades. With their weight in his hands, he came back to himself: the Warsword, the Hand of Death.

Monsters' throats opened beneath the edges of those blades, spilling gore across the ruined laboratory.

As blood dripped from Wilder's swords, that brilliant white light flared again.

At last, he tasted the storm on his lips, and looked up.