Page 101 of Captive of the Stolen Empire

I forced myself to look at him, though I couldn’t halt the quivering of my lips. “Yes.” What did it matter now?

A flash of something crossed his eyes, too quick to catch.

“But I regret it.”

“It’s too late for regrets, Ilya.”

I dropped my head to stare at the mud. Far too late. Didn’t I know it?

“Execution isn’t what’s proposed for you.” His voice was vacant, colder than the rain that chilled my skin.

“Torture then?” I bit my lip, holding in the emotions threatening to rip me apart as I dared to look at him once more.

One quick nod. “Just like last time we were here.”

Lucien grasped my arm, right over the bangle he’d gifted me, one I still wore every day. I swallowed, bracing for the metal to be ripped from my arm.

Instead, he stood, drawing me shakily to my feet.

“It’s what they expect.”

He dropped his arm and stepped back, his gift still in place.

Oh, Lucien.

I wouldn’t see his magic, would never know the horrors he’d warp for others to see. New tears sprung to my eyes, but this time I didn’t blink them away. These were for Lucien, so he would know what words could not say.

He found it in himself to spare me pain, even with my sins laid bare and confessed for only his ears to hear.

“Get on with it!” Ryszard called from the stands, annoyance clear in his voice.

“It’s what they expect,” Lucien said again. His gaze locked with mine, still cold and hard but sending a message as clear as he could.

Ryszard expected him to punish me, torture me. I’d need to act accordingly. Somehow.

I lunged backward, widening the distance between us until the ropes around my wrists pulled tight again, digging into my skin. I filled my expression with a mix of real and assumed terror at the magic to come. Whatever reason Lucien had to spare me from the brunt of his power, it didn’t mean things were right between us. They might never be again.

Lucien stretched his hand toward me, palm up. “What do you fear?” He raised his voice, loud enough to be heard by others. “Let’s see, shall we?”

Give me a sign. Tell me what to do.

“Sorrena’s destruction,” Lucien said. His voice held a hint of mirth, as it might if he truly wished me to suffer. “Of course.”

I thrashed against my bindings, pretending to struggle against the scene I could not see.

Gasps and murmurs of those in attendance let me know that magic flowed before us, painting a scene as real and visceral as if they stood inside it themselves.

“No!” I cried for the benefit of the crowd. “Stop it!” The ropes around my wrists abraded my skin as I pulled against them, struggling to retreat from the imagined scene around me.

Someone in the audience screamed. Others shifted in their seats.

Real memories swamped me like a wave over the bow of a boat. The men dying on the fields had been far from me, seen at a distance rather than up close. But I’d never forget the distant glow of flames and the sickening smoke that even the sea breeze couldn’t push away fast enough. On that horrible day, I’d wished to take up a sword and stand with my people—even if I ended up as one of the dead or dying.

My knees wobbled from the memories Lucien stirred up. How much horror would I experience if I could see the illusions he wrought? I thrashed against the ropes again and slipped in the muck. Pain raced up my arm as I fell to the ground. I didn’t bother to rise, letting the memories drag me down into the mud.

“Please,” I sobbed.

I dug my fingers into the ground, begging as I waited for the torture to end.

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