It's black. Completely black, and it sizzles where it hits the stone floor like acid.
Vitti's scream is the sound of a broken child, high and shrill and utterly inhuman. He jerks his hand back, black blood streaming between his fingers, and the expression that crosses his face would make demons weep.
"Bad dolly!" His voice cracks like breaking glass. "Bad, bad dolly! Now you need to be punished!"
His unmarked hand seizes one of the stones tied to my wrist, lifts it high above my head. I see my death in those black eyes—skull crushed like an eggshell, body arranged in whatever position pleases his mad aesthetic.
But I'm not the frightened slave who once hid in barns, waiting for death to find her. I'm not some broken doll for his collection.
"I am not your doll, you sick bastard." The words tear from my throat like battle cries. "I am Forla of the Iron Tusk Clan, and my mate will tear your heart out!"
The stone stops inches from my face. Vitti's head tilts in that horrible, unnatural way, black eyes widening with something that might be delight.
"Mate?" The word rolls off his tongue like honey mixed with poison. "Oh... oh this is delicious. He'll come for you, won't he? And then I'll have two dolls."
His laugh is the sound of breaking glass, of children screaming, of every nightmare that ever crawled from the dark places of the world. It echoes off the stone walls, seems to make the porcelain dolls dance in their alcoves.
"Yes, yes, YES!" He claps his hands together, black blood still dripping from his wounded finger. "A matched set! How perfectly wonderful!"
He begins rummaging through piles of chains and restraints, humming that horrible lullaby as he selects heavier stones, thicker ropes.
"Don't worry, little dolly," he croons without looking at me. "Soon you won't be able to move at all. Perfect dolls never move. And when your mate arrives, he can be my perfect warrior doll. We'll arrange you both so beautifully?—"
I close my eyes and think of Thoktar's hands, his voice, his promise. Somewhere out there, he's fighting to get back to me. I just have to survive long enough for him to find me.
Hold on, my love. Find me. Please, before this monster breaks us both.
Around me, a hundred porcelain faces smile their painted smiles, and Vitti hums his lullaby while mixing the liquid that will turn me into just another doll in his collection.
But I am not made of porcelain. And I will not break.
30
THOKTAR
The magic ahead resolves into Dark Elves as our cart rounds the bend—but not ordinary soldiers. These wear the midnight-blue armor of magical guards, elite troops whose very presence makes the air crackle with suppressed power. Twelve of them mounted on shadowsteeds, their weapons wreathed in cold fire that burns without heat.
"Oh dear." Cirsheco murmurs, his voice losing all trace of amusement. "Dear, dear, dear."
The lead guard raises his hand, and our horse stops dead, legs locked by invisible force. Magic flows around us like a tide, pressing against my skin with the weight of centuries. These aren't bounty hunters or arena guards—these are the kind of Dark Elves who make other Dark Elves nervous.
"Cirsheco the Wild," the captain calls, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. "By order of the Deep Lords, you will surrender yourself for judgment."
"Judgment?" Cirsheco laughs, but there's no humor in it now. "How terribly formal. What am I accused of this time?"
"The dishonouring of Lord Farferz. The seduction of his wife.”
“She seduced me!” Cirsheco says.
“The theft of his gold reserves. The murder of six of his personal guards.” The Captain continues.”
“Sorry?” Cirsheco says.
“Urinating on the bust of his late mother." Each charge falls like a stone into deep water. "Shall I continue?"
"Please do. I so enjoy hearing about my accomplishments."
‘The buggering of the Lord’s doll.”
