6

My wrists are raw. I didn't realize how quickly skin could be rubbed away.

I alternate between kneeling, which hurts my wrists and knees, and standing, which hurts everything. Twice I start to doze off, but both times, the chittering and scrabbling in my cell grows louder, and I jerk awake, terrified that the creatures will sense my loss of consciousness and come to nibble at me. I have no idea what the crawly things are. The cell is black as a cave, so even when my eyes are open, I can't see anything.

Ever since I drank the water, I've felt vague and muddled—dizzy and drowning in the dark, and thirstier than ever. Maybe the King drugged me. Or perhaps my wounds are becoming infected. Chills keep surging over my skin, followed by painfully intense flashes of heat that slick my body with sweat. I'm parched, practically dying of thirst, and I'm so hungry my stomach feels as if it's stuck to my backbone.

This is true captivity, true cruelty. Even before Kyreagan and I developed a connection, he was reasonable. Any deprivation I experienced with him wasn't malicious—he simply didn't think of everything, or understand what I needed. The bruises he gave me were the result of his inexperience with handling humans. He regretted them as soon as he noticed them, and he never handled me so carelessly again. When he learned more about my needs and wants, he did his best to accommodate them.

But this man, this human king—he has none of Kyreagan's consideration or mercy. He is pitiless.

Still, it's almost a relief when Rahzien enters my cell again. He's wearing different clothes—a simple ivory shirt and a pair of brown leggings that hug his massive thighs.

He sets down his lantern and surveys me, twisting one of the gold beads in his beard. I know he must have bodyguards and servants somewhere—perhaps upstairs, waiting for his call. Not that they would need to remain within earshot for his safety. I'm a limp, trembling mess, the furthest thing from a threat.

He's a busy man, with an army at his command and a conquered nation to subdue, and yet he prefers to come here alone and devote time to breaking my spirit. As if this is the work he truly prefers.

My mother used to enjoy breaking horses. It was one of her few hobbies, and she never indulged in it without a healer close by in case she was injured. The stablemaster would send one of his boys out to the market beyond the city's eastern wall, where horses, cattle, and all kinds of animals were sold and traded. The boy would find the fiercest stallion or the most restive colt and bring it back to the palace for my mother to break in her spare time. She tamed each horse with vicious beatings and the sheer force of her will, and sometimes with deprivation. I could never watch the process for long—it made me furious, and usually resulted in a savage argument between us, after which she would ban me from the stables and gardens for weeks on end.

I understand enough of the process to know what Rahzien is doing, to witness my own slow unwinding into a creature of groveling need. Even as the King surveys me, I'm teetering on the verge of brokenness, balancing on the crumbled edges of my self-worth. My mind is blurred, my body feverish, my eyes swollen, my lips cracked. Strangely, I don't need to pee, which is worrying since I've been like this for hours. At least I think it's been hours. Days?

"Do you still think the dragon prince will come to save you?" asks the King.

I frown, trying to conjure Kyreagan's face. My exhausted brain keeps switching between his dragon features and his human ones.

"Yes," I rasp. "He'll come. He'll… kill you."

"I'm not worried," replies Rahzien. "Not about him, or any of the dragons. They'll all be dead soon."

Fear twists inside me, sharp enough to pierce my mental haze for a moment. "Dead? What do you mean?"

The King smiles, and it's like the ruthless grin of a shark. "I heard that the Mordvorren was sighted over Ouroskelle. That's why Fortunix didn't bring you to me sooner. The storm spent several days there, didn't it? Which means the island's natural resources will have been severely depleted."

"The dragons are resilient," I say.

"True." He strokes his beard. "You know those bits of land they wanted? The ones I gave them as their reward for helping me conquer Elekstan? Every animal on those islands has been infused with a magical poison that activates upon contact with a dragon's saliva."

He waits for my reaction, but I can only stare vaguely at him. What he's saying doesn't make sense.

"After the storm, the dragons must have been hungry," Rahzien continues. "By now they'll have hunted and consumed prey from the Middenwold Isles. Those islands are the only remaining source of prey other than the mainland—and the dragons won't hunt here. They're too honorable for that. "

"What are you saying?" I falter.

"Within the next day or so, the dragons will fall ill, every single one of them. And by the time they realize why they're sick, it'll be too late. Every dragon will be dead by the end of the week."

Panic spurs my sluggish heartbeat. "You're lying. If this was true, you would have mentioned it last time."

"I choose when to give you information. I am your master."

"No poison like that exists. I don't believe you."

"I may not have any sorcerers with battle skills, but I've got one who creates the most intricate, ingenious poisons—like the one currently flowing through your veins. The one that was infused in the water you drank."

I choke on a mirthless, despairing laugh. "Why would you poison me? It makes no sense. You need me as leverage with the people."

"Ah, but this poison doesn't kill you... not exactly. It prevents you from going too far from me. Let's say I was standing in the center of your palace, and you were headed toward the city wall. By the time you got there, you would start feeling sick and faint, and if you persisted, you would eventually collapse, bleeding from the eyes, nose, and ears. If you managed to crawl farther, you would slip into unconsciousness, and if anyone carried you beyond that point, you would die."

"Liar," I whisper. It's the only word that makes sense, the only defense I can muster. "Liar."

"Try to escape, and you'll find out if I'm lying," Rahzien answers. "The proximity poison is somewhat inconvenient for me, I'll confess. I've had to remain nearby to avoid accidentally killing you, which complicates some of my duties. The sooner you submit, the sooner we can both return to your palace and proceed with our new lives. I shall proclaim myself Emperor of Vohrain, Elekstan, and Ouroskelle, while you shall take your place as my first ‘Conquered Consort.' I came up with the title myself. What do you think of it?"

"Fuck you," I wheeze.

"Yes, you will." His beard twitches as he smirks. "As for the other thing, the extermination of the dragons—I have long believed that those creatures were far too powerful to be allowed to exist. Our alliance gave me the chance to evaluate the threat they pose, and I've decided there's no place for such monsters in the empire I'm building."

A hideous wave of heat roars through my body, followed by a burst of nausea. I imagine the dragons sickening, spasming, dying, unable to fulfill Kyreagan's promise and set their captives free after mating season. I picture the women stranded in caves, unable to return to the ground, slowly starving. I envision the eggs—my eggs—the pretty violet one and the marbled blue one, hatching alone in the cave, with their father's skeleton as their sole guardian. The little ones will suffer and perish, with no one to bring them food or teach them to fly. They will die, believing themselves unloved and unwanted, when nothing could be farther from the truth. Their father did terrible things to ensure their existence, to provide for them.

"Kyreagan." Fuck, I said his name aloud. The boundary between my thoughts and my voice has grown watery, imagination and reality blending together.

Kyreagan . Is he suffering right now, writhing in agony as the poison does its work? Is he torn by anxiety, worrying about everyone else even as he's dying? Is he already dead, disintegrated by the dawn, a majestic warrior faded into nothing but wind and ash?

No. No.

I need him to exist, even if I suffer, even if I die. I need him to keep being. "I don't believe it," I gasp. "Any of it."

"I'll find you proof," says the King. "Might take a while, but I'll send some men out to Ouroskelle and have them bring back—what do the dragons call it? Bone-tribute?" He chuckles tonelessly. "I'll have them bring back a bone of Kyreagan's. Maybe I'll carve it into a butt plug for you. That way, when I'm fucking you, he'll be there too."

"You're the worst excuse for a human being to ever walk this earth." I can barely manage the words because the chills are back, and my teeth keep clicking together compulsively.

"I see you have a fever," observes Rahzien. "Probably from that wound in your foot."

I glance down and nearly vomit at the sight of my foot. It's swollen and unrecognizable, mottled in shades of sickly taupe, olive-green, and purple.

"I assume you'd like treatment for that," he says. "Some food and water? A bed?"

"What's the point? I may as well die."

"Because of the dragon?" Rahzien leans closer, his stare oddly intense. "You want to die because he's dead?"

The question rings through me like a bright bell, and for an instant I'm alert, fully cognizant.

To live, knowing that Kyreagan is gone, will hurt, every single day. But I can do it, if somewhere in the future lies a promise of revenge. I can do as I'm told, bear any brutality, suffer any assault, in the interest of one day finding the chance to kill Rahzien with my own hands—or at the very least, look into his eyes while someone else slaughters him at my feet.

If Fortunix can bide his time for so long, and wreak such far-reaching vengeance upon the kingdom who hunted his mates, I can do this . I can be the soft, submissive creature Rahzien wants. I can do anything he requires of me.

This is the game, the task, the strategy—my tragic masterpiece. Just as I played the arrogant, demanding princess for Kyreagan, so I will play the defeated, spiritless doll for Rahzien .

Until the day the doll rises up, and stabs him to death with a splinter of her own broken heart.

I let myself sag in my chains. "Yes, I want a bed, and food, and medicine. Please, Master."

"That's a good little fool." He grabs my chin, tilts my face up to his bearded one so I'm forced to stare into his eyes. He's trying to see if I mean it, if he has broken the spirit of the wild horse.

I let my misery, dizziness, weariness, and grief flood my eyes, oceans of hopeless submission surging over my true motives, concealing the black anchor of vengeance buried in the depths of my heart.

Rahzien seems satisfied with what he observes in my gaze. "Repeat after me."

He pronounces the mantra, and I speak it five times for him, in a voice faint and shaking.

"I did not save my people, nor can I save myself. I am worthless. I am foolish. I am alone. I have no value, and no one wants me."