Page 53 of Captive of the Stolen Empire

I’d warned her, though perhaps not well enough. What would she have said if I’d told her that my emperor ordered me to carry out the prisoners’ punishment after we’d talked him out of the more lasting and possibly deadly display he’d initially ordered? Now I’d never know.

Her form wavered through mist and smoke. A spark of pleasure burned in my chest as Ilya traced the silver bangle upon her upper arm. She almost always wore it now, for protection or as some sign to me, I didn’t know. Logic told me the former, though my traitor heart hoped for the latter. She wore her necklace again too—a sign of her people, her rank. The night of the festival was the only time I’d seen her without it.

Don’t do it,I willed as she slid off the bangle. A humorless huff slipped from my lips as she put it on Elin. No sooner was it in place than she wrapped her arms around the girl and tucked her head into her chest. Of course she’d protect someone else. Better that frail girl than the others, but my stomach clenched when I considered what Ilya would soon witness.

“The one on the left first?” Orson asked, lowering a section of the magical wall of flame for me to step through. The two prisoners had been led into the arena once the audience was seated, one on each side. The guards had bound their tied hands to a length of rope attached to a metal ring driven into the ground. They would have some mobility, but not much. If the rope snapped, they wouldn’t make it through the flames or the guards waiting beyond.

“Does it matter?” I replied. It didn’t. First or second, both would suffer. What was worse, experiencing the torture unprepared or knowing what was to come?

“Looking forward to this.” Orson laughed as he stepped back. The sound grated on my nerves worse than dented armor. Someday, Orson would step out of line far enough for me to put him in his place, perhaps in multiple pieces. He almost had with Ilya the night I first brought her to my quarters—he might have if I hadn’t intervened. Saving her from Orson was worth prolonging his comeuppance.

I stepped into the ring toward the unfortunate dark-haired man staring me down: Lord Fernand Reis, heir to the city-state of Nassia. Magic tingled down my arms, collecting in my fingertips as I willed illusion into life. It wouldn’t be something simple today, no creation of my imagination. Instead, I directed the magic to Fernand, willing it to dig into his fears and weave a projection based on what it found there. Such a skill was taxing, but significantly more effective than a generic illusion. This would be personal, brutal…effective.

“Fernand?” A beautiful blonde woman in a long, blue dress appeared behind the man. She cradled a bundle of cloth, one that wiggled and cried out.

His child?We hadn’t known about the young boy when we conquered their city-state. Fernand hid that secret well. Our governor of Nassia, one the emperor installed to see that their leader followed the emperor’s orders, discovered the baby’s existence many days after his arrival. Our emperor thought to request that the child reside in Zhine. He still might once the babe grew older.

Fernand whirled toward the woman, bound hands in front of him. So quickly, he dismissed my presence in light of his wife. The rope pulled taut, and he crashed to his knees. Fingers dug into the dirt as he strained to move forward, to reach her.

“Fernand?” she echoed again. The illusion did not see him, but he certainly saw her. And the child.

“Magdalena!” he cried, struggling to reach her.

The sound chafed like soiled cloth. I willed the illusion to continue, but I looked away, searching again for that one face among the masses.

Ilya paled. Reyna grasped her arm in a show of support before wrapping her arms around the twin boys sitting in front of her.

Look away.

Their attention was glued to the scene along with the others in the crowd. All sat in rapt attention as the flawless illusion continued to take shape.

The baby’s cries picked up. A building solidified from thin air behind the woman, one with ornate, high windows and painted frescoes. Carved pillars depicting scenes of the growing season. A temple of the Goddess of Dawn from the looks of it.

A piece of the painted temple ceiling broke off, shattering as it landed near the woman’s feet. The baby wailed. The woman screeched as she looked around, begging for the man who cried out for her just as ardently. He strained and pulled, crying in earnest as another piece crashed to the ground. Then another.

I steeled myself and swallowed through the dryness in my throat as the horror of the illusion, of memory and fear that I had twisted into a very real nightmare, continued to unfold.

The ceiling continued to fall, crushing the woman and her child as Fernand screamed in agony. The woman’s cries halted as remaining chunks of plaster clattered onto the rubble covering her body.

Fernand pressed his face into the dirt, his arms wrapped around himself as he rocked and shook. A slight acid scent burned into the air with the smoke of the flames.

My body shuddered as I willed the magic to retreat, cutting off its flow like tightening the noose at the end of a rope. The man huddled further in on himself, curled like a child in a muddy ball.

One down.

I spit the foul taste from my mouth. This was worse than battle. I’d take the broken, bloodied bodies of fallen warriors over this helpless slaughter of the mind.

I frowned as the line of flame splitting the arena dimmed to ashes in one small section, just wide enough for me to pass through. Orson anticipated my actions, paving the way for me to approach my next unwilling victim.

Unlike Fernand, this man had courage. Lord Gabriel Laril of Trale. Ilya’s friend.

Gabriel strained against his bindings, gritting his teeth as I stalked toward him without a word. I had no threats for this captive or any other. I didn’t need them. The suffering Gabriel already witnessed, and would shortly endure, was more than enough to inflict a targeted blow. Emperor Ryszard requested this punishment for guests who stepped out of line. While it hurt them the most, it affected the rest of them too. One quick look at the faces of the audience was enough to see them squirm and whisper to one another.

The fire sprang to life behind me as soon as I passed through, the heat rushing up my back and warming my armor. That bastard could have waited a moment longer. Sweat from the fire and the use of complex magic dampened my hair under the heavy armor and ran down my back in a small trickle.

“Get on with it then,” Gabriel shouted. He’d seen his friend suffer. He knew what came next.

Good, I wanted to be done with it as well. Magic tingled under my skin before rushing out to the man before me. In moments, an illusion began to appear behind him, stolen from his mind.

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