Regret.
Genuine, unfiltered remorse.
That hurt more than the strike ever could.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Before I could process that, Xyliria spoke. “Oh, and Cindrissian?”
He didn’t look at her.
“If you stop before I say, I’ll kill Fenric anyway.”
Cindrissian’s shoulders tensed. And then, without another word, he hit me.
The first blow landed hard enough to rattle my bones, snapping my head to the side. Pain flared across my jaw, but it was bearable. Cindrissian wasn’t putting his full strength into it—I could tell. He was holding back, trying to pull the force of his strikes. He couldn’t make it obvious, but I knew.
The second blow came just as fast, a crack across my ribs that stole the breath from my lungs. I staggered, but I didn’t fall. I wouldn’t fall.
I braced myself, setting my jaw, refusing to make a sound. If I reacted too little, she’d demand he hit harder. If I reacted too much, she’d enjoy it. I needed to strike a balance. We both did.
His fist slammed into my stomach, and I buckled, sucking in a breath through clenched teeth.
A muffled shout rang through the hall. Fenric. I recognised the rage, but I couldn’t focus on it, not when fresh pain exploded across my ribs, knocking me sideways. I hit the floor hard, my hands splayed against the marble, my breathing ragged. Blood dripped from my lip, pooling onto the stone beneath me.
He hesitated for half a breath, before he whispered once more, “I’m sorry.”
And then he struck me again.
And again.
And again.
I was a panting, bleeding mess on the floor when a voice echoed across the room.
“Enough.” It wasn’t loud, but it carried, the word itself holding absolute power.
My ears rang, my vision blurred, but I recognised him.
Ashterion.
The only sound was the drip of my blood, the uneven gasps stuttering out of me. The taste of copper filled my mouth as I spat blood onto the stone.
Xyliria emitted an amused sound.
But Ashterion wasn’t looking at her. He and Cindrissian met each other’s gaze, an unspoken exchange passing between them that made Ashterion’s jaw tighten further.
I didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t have the energy to try to understand it.
“Take them back,” Ashterion ordered, his tone uncompromising. “Provide food and water.”
As the guards pulled me away, Cindrissian’s eyes met mine, crimson depths haunted, apology shining so raw and clear it was nearly painful. I saw his fingers tremble, fists clenching at his sides.
They hauled us back through the corridors, the weight of my own body a burden I couldn’t carry. My legs buckled with every step, but the guards didn’t care. They dragged me forward regardless, my boots scraping against the floor.
My ribs throbbed in sync with my pulse—a constant, pulsing reminder that I was alive, and breaking. Beside me, Fenric stumbled, unable to hold his own weight, while Cindrissian walked with measured steps, his shoulders tense, his expression unreadable.
When we finally reached the dungeon, the guards didn’t bother with gentleness. A rough jerk, a sudden push, and I was tossed inside. My body hit the damp stone, my already battered frame flaring with fresh pain. I used what little strength I had left to brace myself as I crashed against the floor, my breathknocking out of me. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind us, the sound echoing off the cavernous walls.
