Page 13 of Tethered In Blood

The first cut was shallow. Only a whisper of pressure against his forehead. A scratch. A single bead of blood welled up, trembling before it carved a slow path down his face, a crimson tear against the pallor of his skin.

My dagger traced a deliberate path, slicing through flesh with precise, practiced strokes. The blade marked his skin, parting it in thin, glistening lines. Each fresh wound brought a new shudder through his body, a tremor in his breath, a tightening in his muscles.

He held out longer than most. The first scream came when the cuts deepened. The dagger bit into the sinew beneath his skin. A raw, strangled sound burst from his throat that echoed off the stone walls and filled the chamber with a haunting symphony of pain.

Sweat beaded on his brow, mingling with the blood as it dripped from his chin. His breathing turned ragged, shallow, and quick between shuddering gasps. But I wasn’t done. The blade worked with precision, carving slow, intricate paths across his chest, arms, and ribs. Several cuts were shallow, others deep enough to expose the pale, glistening fat. The smell of iron thickened in the air.

His body drooped against the shackles. His muscles twitched with every fresh wound, every new flare of agony. His screams faded, swallowed by silence, his mind reeling, struggling to withstand what his body couldn’t. Still, he refused to speak.

I inclined my head, examining the ruin of him. The once-bright defiance in his eyes had dulled, reduced to a glazed, unfocused stare. His lips trembled.

“You will talk,” I murmured. An involuntary shudder rolled through him, his body betraying what his mind refused to yield. My dagger hovered over his chest, the tip poised against sweat-slicked skin, catching the dim light.

I leaned in, my voice emotionless and steady. “I will ask again, Rhys Carrow, before I make this worse for you. Who are your allies? What are their plans?”

He shook his head in a slow, weak movement. Not defiance anymore—just the hollow remnants of a man trying to hold onto something that had slipped away from him.

“Wrong answer.”

The dagger arced downward in a single, precise motion. The blade met flesh, then bone, and in a swift, clean separation, his pinky severed. The digit hit the stone floor with a wet thud. Carrow’s cry ripped through the cell, his body jerking against the restraints. His breath hitched, shuddering, his eyes wide—panic and pain warring in their depths.

I let the pause expand between us while he gasped, writhing against the chains and curling his fingers inward to reclaim his lost possession.

Then I did it again.

The ring finger next. Another clean cut. Another ragged, keening cry reverberated against the stone walls. His body convulsed, muscles spasmed, and his breaths came in ragged, wet gasps. His head lolled forward, blood dripping from his ruined hand onto his lap.

Then the middle.

His shriek shattered through the cell, but it didn’t last. His body betrayed him. His eyes rolled back as his mind fought to escape the torment.

My fingers curled into his matted hair, yanking his head with a sharp jerk. “No,” I hissed. “You don’t get to leave yet.” His lashes flickered, and his pupils dilated, his breath shallow and wheezing. He swayed in the shackles, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

I pressed the blade to his chest, letting the slick metal graze his skin. A reminder that there was still more to come. His body shuddered beneath it, his mind clawing back from the abyss. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. He hung onto life by a thread.

Leaning in, I whispered again, my tone softer this time. “Let’s try again. Who are your allies? What are their plans?”

His lips moved, but the sound was a rasp, a breath of surrender lost in the still air between us. Watching the dull glaze settle over his eyes, I cocked my head and leaned closer, my ear inches from his mouth. A smirk ghosted across my features as I murmured, “Don’t make me work for it, Rhys. You only have so many fingers left.”

He drew a ragged breath, his entire body trembling with the effort. The fight was gone.

Carrow’s breath rattled as he whispered, “The… the Blacksmith’s Guild…” His words trembled, slipping past bloodied lips. “They’re planning… a ritual… a sacrifice.” His head lolled, his body sagging further against the restraints. “In five full moons… the bleeding must be done.”

I stilled. The words were a slow-drawn blade against my spine. “Sacrifice?”

Carrow gave a weak, shuddering nod, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “The Guild… they need blood… something old, strong…” He swallowed hard, his head rolling against the stone. “The uprising depends on it.”

I processed the words, turning them over, searching for meaning. It was vague: a ritual, a sacrifice, blood, five full moons. It was superstition, another misguided effort to harness old magic for their cause. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they planned something, and I had the means to end it. A whisper of satisfaction nestled in my chest.

My gaze didn’t leave his face as I lifted my dagger and plunged it into his eye with apop. Steel met little resistance before the familiar wet squelch of muscle gave way, and I twisted the hilt. His body jerked once, twice, then stilled. A final, rattled breath escaped him before his life faded into the hollow silence. His blood dripped slowly and thickly as I pulled the dagger free. The smell of iron, sweat, and urine clung to the air.

The following silence was deafening. Only the soft, wet patter of blood broke the stillness. I stepped back, my chest heaving with exertion, my breath slow as I studied my handiwork. His body sagged in the iron shackles, limp and lifeless. His fingers—what remained of them—hung in grotesque angles, and his ruined eye socket was a gaping hole. A crimson trail streaked his cheek, soaking into the drenched fabric of his tunic.

The slow, gnawing burn in my shoulder became impossible to ignore. The dull ache from earlier had sharpened into something more sinister. It burrowed beneath my skin, radiating outward, setting my veins alight with fire and ice. My pulse pounded in my skull, and my breath came in shorter, shallower gasps.

The wound wasn’t deep. It was a grazing cut, at best. But it was wrong.

Cold sweat broke across my brow. My fingers twitched at my side, a tremor I hadn’t willed. I spun around, striding toward the stairs, but the world around me shifted with each step. The stone beneath my boots felt unsteady, the air thick and stifling.

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