Page 13 of Cruel Master
He's dressed all in black, aside from a red cloak hanging down his back. The fitted clothes highlight his solid, muscular body. I recognize the outfit, of course. It’s from the very first version of the game. It's how I sketched Saldar on napkins back when the game was nothing but an idea.
Then I lock on to his face, and I swear my soul leaves my body. I’ve seen people dressed as Saldar at conventions. They always get the clothes right, but the face lets the outfit down. Makeup, even the clever FX style, can only do so much.
This man… It’s him. His demonic features, all hard ridges and odd angles, aren’t remotely human, but they have a twisted kind of beauty. Just as I drew them. Saldar’s gold horns and ridged forehead gleam in the muted light, and his eyes are black pools, lit from within with a red glow.
Then his lips twist into something resembling a smile, and I lurch backward, slamming into the cabinet. It jars my shoulder, but I barely register the pain.
The mask moved.
There’s nothing clunky or mechanical about the way Saldar’s features shift, but it’s not natural, either. Like sand running through an hourglass, the mask seems to reform as the smile drops from his face. It’s beyond fucking creepy.
The fear I’ve been keeping at bay surges out in a sudden, angry flood. “Who the fuck are you? Why am I here? If you come near me, I’ll—”
“You’ll do what?”
Thatvoice. Deep and gravelly enough that it doesn’t sound natural, but rich with amusement. It rolls through my bones. It doesn’t match the voice actor who played Saldar, not quite, but I was never one hundred percent happy with him. This voice matches what I had in my head.
It’s almost weird enough to pierce the terror, but then Saldar takes a step forward, and his actual words sink in.
I’ll do what.
Good fucking question.
I don’t have a weapon, and I never bothered to learn martial arts. Even if I had, this guy—I’m not going to think of him as Saldar—looks strong. I’m trapped in a tiny room, naked, with a guy who has to be insane. Psychotic. But organized and smart enough to create whatever the fuck this place is and put together a mask like nothing I’ve ever seen.
My heart races as I press myself against the cabinet. Thoughts skitter through my head, my breaths become ragged and—shit—my vision starts to dim. No. This isn’t the time. I can have a panic attack when I’m safe in my own bedroom again.
“Juliet. Look at me.”
There’s no amusement in Saldar—no, not Saldar, the psycho’s—voice now. It’s full of command, and I’m pulled toward it, gaze locking to his glowing, pinprick eyes.
“Breathe, Juliet, and listen to me.”
Listen to him? As if there’s another option. At least he’s stopped moving. I’ll talk to him if that’s what it takes to keep him on the other side of the altar. I take deep breaths, and my chest aches with how thin the air feels, but I keep on breathing anyway. In and out. One, then two.
He waits for me to gather myself, and there’s something reassuring about that. If he meant to kill me, he’d be doing it now, right? If he was going to torture me, he wouldn’t wait for meto get over a panic attack before he pulled out the needles or whatever.
Christ, why did I have to think that?
Focus on the important stuff. I swallow, and there are so many questions I want answers to that even I don’t know which will come out of my mouth until I say, “Who are you?”
His face shifts into that sinister smile again, and I get the distinct impression I’ve said exactly what he wanted me to. He takes a small step forward, and my adrenaline spikes. Is he messing with me? Drawing out the inevitable with this slow progression in my direction?
“You shall address me as Master. From this point on, failure to do so will be punished.”
A horrible collection of words that tell me nothing and everything at once. The setting he chose leaves no doubt as to what sort of master he thinks he is. My anger flickers back to life, weak but there. Who the fuck is this guy? If I show him weakness, if he thinks he’s winning, then I’ve got no hope at all.
“You’re not my fucking master.”
I expect him to react, to race toward me, grab me, slap me. Something. But he just stares, impassive, for a few long seconds.
Then the lights go out.
It’s pitch black. Velvety darkness so thick it feels weighted. My heart constricts, terror wrapping it in a noose. It’s a deep childhood fear brought to life. Trapped in the dark with a monster.
I’m paralyzed at first, limbs frozen by the nightmarish blackness. But a small voice pipes up from somewhere.
Move. He can’t see you, either.
