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“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.