Salvatore
The putrid stench tore me out of sleep before the guard’s sandal even struck the iron door. The sound cut through the dark like a blade dragged against stone. Someone screamed farther down the corridor—raw, ragged. Someone always did. Then came the dragging, the dull scrape of a body taken toward the pyres—another corpse for the mountain.
My back was fused to the floor—cold stone. No bedding. No straw. Just the slick smear of old blood and burnt flesh. Every breath made the skin on my spine tear open again. The healer they’d dragged me to yesterday—an old man with feeble hands and half-blind eyes—had done what he could, which was nothing. He’d muttered prayers under his breath, smeared some foul paste over the burns, and told me to sleep if I could. I remember thinking I wouldn’t wake again. I still might not.
The oil still clung to me. I could smell it—rancid, sour, soaked deep into the wounds. My flesh had cooked under it. I’d felt the fire crawl down my back, devouring me inch by inch. I’d thought that was the end—that the gods had decided I wasn’t worth saving.
Then the snakes came.
Gods. Those fucking snakes.
They’d slithered out of the shadows—hundreds of them—slick and black, their scales glinting in the dim light. They crawled over the stones, over my legs, my chest, up my throat. I could feel the weight of them, their tongues flicking against my skin, their fangs sinking in. The pain was unbearable—like the fire had come alive and learned to crawl.
But there were no wounds. No venom. No blood. Nothing real. Just agony.
We’d been chained together during the trial, Lazarus and I. Neck to neck. Wrist to wrist. I couldn’t even move to fight them off. I couldn’t scream—my throat was scorched, my lungs full of smoke. I could barely breathe. I thought I was dying. I wanted to die.
Then came the fire.
I don’t know how he did it. I never saw. One moment, the snakes were there, writhing, whispering, hissing our names; the next, they were burning. The heat washed over us again, scorching away the illusion, leaving only the smell of smoke and ash. When it was over, I was still alive—barely—because of Lazarus.
No matter what my father had done to me—his fists, his whips, his endless lessons in pain—it hadn’t prepared me for this. The Dreadhold didn’t just torture you. It studied you. It learned what broke you and then did it again.
A metallic crash ripped me from the memory. The iron door slammed open, rattling the walls, sending dust and ash raining from the ceiling.
“On your feet, you filthy bastards,” the guard barked.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. The movement alone felt like being flayed. He grabbed my arm, jerking me upright. My vision blurred, pain flared white.
“Work detail,” he snarled. “Trials don’t start till midnight. You’ve got time to bleed somewhere else.”
I stayed silent. His grip tightened. The bones in my arm ground together.
“Did you not hear me?”
I turned my head, my voice low, cracked. “I’m not your fucking mule.”
He froze. His hand drifted toward the branding rod at his belt—its tip still glowing from someone else’s flesh.
The rod came down on my shoulder with a sound that split the air. Pain detonated through me—white, blinding, absolute. The scent of my own burnt skin filled the cell, as sharp as iron and fat.
But I didn’t scream.
I wouldn’t give him that.
“Think you’re a warrior because you crawled out of one fucking trial?” he spat. “We’ll see how long that mouth lasts.”
I lifted my head, breath ragged. Across the cell, I saw Lazarus.
He lay face-down on the stone, a sandaled foot pressing into his spine. Another enforcer loomed above him, laughing as he drove his fist into Lazarus’ ribs—again and again. The sound was a sick rhythm of impact and breath.
The Dreadhold didn’t need reasons.
Pain was their religion.
And cruelty?—
That was their fucking prayer.
