Page 87 of A Dance of Water

He raked his eyes over the instruments, settling on one with detached interest.

"You’re innocent, then?" Graves picked up the thumbscrew and threw it in the air, catching it with a soft clink. The noise made the male flinch away from him.

"Yes."

The male whipped his head, tracking Graves as he came to stand before him again. His golden eyes flicked down, growing wide as Graves lifted the thumbscrew, the flickering light of the candles in their sconces casting shadows over the rusted, bloodied device.

"Then I should let you go?" Graves unscrewed the top, allowing enough space to fit the male’s fingers. It made a soft squeaking noise—music to his ears.

"I—" The male watched warily as Graves undid one of the chains on his right wrist, leaving his ruined left one held aloft.

The Knight left the chains wrapped around his hand, keeping the enchantments intact so the male would not be able to use his magic against him.

Finally, the male settled on, "Yes… y-you should let me go."

Graves took the male’s pointer finger and inserted it into the thumbscrew. The male’s hands shook so hard Graves was barely able to keep it on long enough to screw it a few times.

He winced but didn’t yell—not yet; it wasn’t tight enough to cause true pain.

"If that’s what you wish," Graves said without inflection.

Relief swept throughout the male’s features. "You’ll let me go?"

Graves nodded and turned the screw tighter. A little tighter.

Pain clouded his once-hopeful golden eyes, mouth opening with the beginnings of a scream.

"I’ll let you go," Graves uttered. "But I never said if you’d be alive or not."

And before the words could truly sink in, Graves turned the screw three times in quick succession, hearing the crack of a fingernail as it splintered under the force of the screw, then, the crack of bone. Skin caved in under the weight of the screw, blood spurting.

Graves smiled. Very good.

He had gotten the information he wanted a while ago. Now, it was time to play.

A few more screws and the male’s screams of pain echoed throughout the darkened halls of the dungeons.

Graves left the device on the male’s flattened, pulpy finger, grabbing a dull knife from the cart.

He rotated it in the light, allowing the amber flames to catch the serrated edges. He ripped the sleeves of the male’s shirt completely, rending it from his body, leaving only tattered pieces hanging from his shoulders. A bare canvas, ready for him to carve his pain into.

The Knight got to work, dragging the dulled edge over his torso; blood welled, and the male gritted his teeth to stop himself from screaming.

Not good enough. Graves dug the blade in deeper, allowing the rough, pointed side of it to cut tiny pieces of his skin away like leaves drifting from a tree. Ribbons of flesh decorated the blood-stained stone floors of the dungeons, and his skin was in tatters. Better.

Soon, his skin was a map of bloodied lines and open wounds. Digging the blade into the male’s forearm, Graves intoned, "Let every cut be a reminder that you should be careful of what you touch, lest your hands graze something that belongs to someone more powerful than you."

"Forgive me!" the male pleaded. Snot dripped from his nose as he cried, mixing with his tears.

"I’ve seen females withstand torture better than you. Pity, you fae are so weak." Graves seized the male’s shatteredwrist, twisting it.

A strained yell pierced the air.

"You shouldn’t have touched her," Graves said simply.

The air shifted. Graves turned his head, feeling a presence behind him.

"No," said the Prima. "He shouldn’t have."

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