Page 17 of Tethered In Blood

“I expect you to take notice,” she corrected, her voice sharp but kind. “You’re not as blind as you pretend to be, Sinclaire. You have selective vision. You see things and choose not to care.”

“You think this changes that?”

A small, perceptive smile tugged at her lips. “I think it already has.”

I turned away before she could say more, pushing the infirmary door open with more force than necessary. This wasn’t something I had time for. I had a report to make, a job to do. But as I stalked through the castle halls, the journal’s weight under my arm bore an unexpected significance.

Quickening my pace, I walked faster as if it would shake the damn thing from my mind. The words and symptoms clawed at my thoughts, refusing to let go.

First sixty seconds: Numbness spreads from the fingertips. A slow, creeping chill. Lips tingle. Breathing remains unaffected.

It was vivid in my mind. Her fingers trembling as she gripped her charcoal, the stick pressing too hard into the page, causing her letters to appear sharp and frantic.

Two minutes: The numbness deepens, spreading up the arms and to the chest. Muscles twitch involuntarily. Heat rises in the throat but lacks actual fever.

I exhaled slowly, ignoring the rising burn in my chest.

Five minutes: Fingers curl inward. Clenching is impossible. The chill becomes fire. A paradox. Pain radiates through the limbs.

Had she experienced this? Was it something inflicted upon her? Was it intentional? A test? Punishment?

Fourteen minutes: The chest tightens—not from asphyxiation, but from the pull of the ribs being peeled apart from the inside.

My teeth ached from the intensity of my clamped jaw. Only someone familiar with those descriptions and the brutally precise pain mapping could articulate that, unless they had endured it themselves, breath by breath.

Ten minutes: Vision blurs. Ears ring. The body is now frozen, yet the pain persists. The mind stays awake. The heart stutters, but it does not stop.

I struggled against the knot in my throat. I had witnessed death, had tortured and killed, enough to know the pain in her notes was neither swift nor merciful. It was a prolonged and agonizing torment.

Fifteen minutes: Consciousness flickers. Limbs heavy. Heartbeat irregular. Lungs no longer responsive. There is nothing left to do but wait.

Then there was the last note, so dark it looked angry, scrawled beneath the entry:Doesn’t kill at once. Leaves them aware. A cruel way to die, but not the most vicious.

The pounding in my ears was so loud that I couldn’t hear my footsteps when I turned a corner. I wasn’t fond of the sensations winding through my chest; I didn’t enjoy caring, yet something told me I had little choice.

The prince’s chambers were as lavish as ever, featuring polished marble floors, heavy velvet drapes that absorbed the moonlight, and a fireplace crackling in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the room’s gold accents. A large mahogany desk stood against the far wall, topped with neat piles of parchment, maps, and an open inkwell. Alric stood near the hearth, clad in loose-fitting nightclothes; the pale linen tunic hung open at the collar. His sharp green eyes caught the firelight, and his golden hair was tousled, likely from running his hands through it. He appeared more like a young noble lounging before bed than a ruler burdened by the responsibilities of a kingdom.

He turned as I entered, and a smirk danced on his lips. “You look like death, Oberon.”

The guards closed the doors behind me, and I scoffed. “You should have seen me yesterday.”

He chuckled, his arms stretched above his head. “I take it your mission was… eventful?”

I sank into a chair by the fire, winced as my shoulder collided with the back, and stretched my legs out in front of me. “Carrow talked.”

Alric’s smirk faded, and his expression sharpened with interest. “And?”

Sighing, I ran a hand over my jaw. “The Blacksmiths’ guild. They’re the ones planning the rebellion.” Alric remained silent. His gaze was distant, and his fingers tapped against the arm of his chair. So, I raised another concern. “The poison they used on me was different.”

He sighed and rubbed his temples. “I’m not surprised.”

I frowned. “Explain.”

Alric leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Blacksmiths’ Guild is located in the forest to the east of the border, at its southernmost edge.”

My eyes narrowed. “That’s the Fae border.”

Alric nodded. “That’s why they had access to such a poison. Not because of you,” he waved a hand, “but because they needed to adapt their survival tactics to their environment.”

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