Page 140 of Fires of the Forsaken
“Accidentally.I can’t control it. If you would onlylisten—”
“As you’re still young,” Byron spoke over me, “perhaps you can still change. And I’d regret not giving you the opportunity to do so.”
I yearned to spit in his face. I didn’t like the way his colossal frame so easily dwarfed mine, nor how he stared at me; as though I was a disobedient colt who needed to be beaten into submission.
So I spat.
And felt the stinging pain as his palm lashed my cheek.
“That was rude.” He wiped my spittle from his chin. “As I was saying, I have no desire to kill a child—no matter how despicable you may be—but I cannot allow you to leave and return to Seruf’s side.”
“I’m not—”
“So,” he continued, his voice dull. Unenthused. “Shall we strike a bargain? If you begin speaking the truth—”
“I have been!”
“—and you tell me of Seruf’s plans, I will release you. You’ll be permitted to live in Lamex. Under supervision, of course. But it would be a free life. As long as you don’t harm others, no one will harm you. You would have my word, as the leader of Lamex.”
I swallowed. It was a grossly unfair situation. The idyllic life he described was the only thing I had ever truly wanted. But his promise was empty. That life was a dream.
“Continue lying,” Byron’s voice brightened, “and in those shackles you will stay. You’ll spend the rest of your miserable existence, however long that may be, in this room.”
A tremor started in the middle of my back,ricoseting—ricocheting along my body. I stared at the dark, windowless room and the scarred man standing before me.
The itch in my palms grew.
“Ah, yes,” Byron added, his deformed lips curling into a smile. “I should have mentioned…I had this building specially constructed for your maker.” He stroked his scars. “Stone is quite immune to fire, is it not? And those shackles were a gift from the Celestial Ellard. A metal that cannot be melted by flames.” He tilted his chin toward my right hand, where a flickering yellow light hovered above my fingertips.
The fire had returned.
But the shackles around my wrists remained cool.
My teeth clicked as the tremors grew. I was no stranger to fear, but the apprehension that festered in my gut as I stared at Byron’s gleeful face was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Always before, my terror had been at the prospect of hurting others.
Now I feared for myself.
Byron was like a long night in the dead of winter. There was no warmth in him. No light. Only darkness, and bitter cold.
He was a being more akin to Wraiths than humans.
And, once I realized what he could do, I understood why.
“So, what will you choose?” Byron asked.
My voice quivered. “C-considering you won’t believe me when I tell the truth, I suppose I’m staying here.”
He clapped his hands, delighted. “Very well.”
I expected him to use his sword—to slash it against my skin until I was raw and bleeding. Instead, he pressed his fingers against my temple. His hand was hot, his skincallised—calloused.For a moment he stood still, smiling at the fire that danced over my knuckles.
A wave of emotion crashed over me.
Fear.
No, fear is not a strong enough word to describe it. But, alas, I may have difficulty spelling words that would do it justice.Constornation—consternation.Trepadation—trepidation.Terror.The sort of fright that soured one’s stomach and turned one’s muscles limp. The sort of horror that, embarrassingly, made one lose control of one’s bladder and bowels.
