Page 181

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.