My hands are slammed against the table.
They use metal clamps to nail down three of my left fingers, splaying them wide, and tucking away the other two.
The Guardian unsheathes a weapon.
And it doesn’t register how bad this is.
It’s doesn’t fuse into my thoughts.
My heart fumbles outward.
Three.
Two.
One.
My eyes fall to a wide slayer sword slamming down to the table and chopping off my fingers.
The rusted silver is so sharp and precise, it separates the flesh and bone in one swing.
I stare at it.
The hand. The dark pool of blood. Fingernails. Severed nerves.
I stare.
Left hand.
Crimson red puddle.
Fingers separated from hand.
A wrist.
Shackled wrist.
More blood.
Slayer sword glides away, screeching against the table.
Fingers.
They’re still lined up.
I blink a few times. Ice spreads into my eyes, down my cheeks, splintering into my throat. The world hums and booms with chaos. But all I can see are the fingers no longer attached to the hand.
I sway a centimeter from the table and pull the hand with my body, leaving a sad streak of blood in its movement.
My hand.
That is my hand.
My fingers.
They’ve taken my fingers!
My name is screamed.
