“King Daedalus is a practical man,” Keres begins, his voice smooth as he folds his hands together, eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity. “He believed his heir needed to be strong. Kill or be killed, you know how these things are. But strength…strength isn’t born. It’s forged. And when you forge something, there’s bound to be fire.”
I want to look away, but I can’t. I feel pinned in place as much by his words as by the bruises marring my body.
“I was his little experiment,” Keres continues, his voice softening into something almost gentle. Almost. “They put me here when I was a boy. Small space. Sturdy door. Can’t have the little monster tearing the palace apart, after all.”
A cold tendril of unease snakes through me, but he doesn’t stop.
“When I lashed out, they tightened the chains. When I begged to get out, they kept me longer. When my magic burned, they made me endure—said it was the price I had to pay.” He smiles bitterly, that perfect facade of charm cracking under the weight of something farmore disturbing. “There’s not much to look at in here, is there? Just the walls and yourself. That’s what they wanted. Break the body, poison the mind.”
I swallow hard, my hands trembling despite my efforts to steady them. Titaia had shared glimpses of what Keres endured as a child, and the truth of it is horrifying. Yet still…
“That’s no excuse for what you’re doing to me now.”
Keres’s smile sharpens. “Oh, Aella, I don’t offer excuses. I am what I am because this realm made me this way.” His tone dips, jagged and bitter.
He rises, and the motion draws my gaze upward, watching as he prowls the chamber, his shadow swallowing the flickering aura-light.
“I used to count the scratches on the walls,” Keres murmurs, brushing his fingers along the stone before he moves back toward me. “When the magic was too strong—when it felt like my skin would tear itself apart—I’d press my nails into the stone. One for every day they left me here.”
Stopping in front of me, he crouches again. His hand trails lazily along the floor, his finger tracing one faint groove etched into the stone between my feet.
“The first ones were neat. Straight. But the later days…” He smirks, lifting his hand to gesture at the ragged marks I hadn’t taken note of earlier. “Well, even I lost control.”
My voice catches in my throat, but I manage a single word. “Why?”
He tilts his head at me, his smile softening into mock pity. “Why?” he echoes, his voice low and condescending. “Because when they finally opened that door, I didn’t want to leave. At least here, I knew what to expect. I was just a cage for my father to fill with power, and you know what, Aella? He filled it well.”
His fingers brush my cheek, too soft, too careful, and I flinch back, my skin crawling under his touch.
“I don’t want that fate for you,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with mockery and feigned tenderness. “This would be so much easier if you just told me what I want to know.”
I glare at him, every ounce of hatred I feel reflected in my gaze.“How many times do I have to tell you I know nothing before you believe me?”
Keres lunges forward, gripping my knees with rough hands and prying them apart as if my resistance is nothing more than an inconvenience. I try to close my legs, to make myself smaller, but my body betrays me. Between the blood loss and the relentless pull of thegoiteíacollar around my neck, I don’t even have the strength to keep him at bay. His fingers trail over the jagged cuts on my thighs, making me hiss through my teeth as fresh waves of pain ripple through me.
He tuts softly, shaking his head like I’m a stubborn child he’s grown tired of scolding. His head tilts to the side, and a glint of something dark—something dangerous—flickers in his eyes as he takes in my battered state. The way he looks at me makes bile rise in my throat.
“You keep saying that,” Keres murmurs, his tone almost conversational. He leans in closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Now, why don’t we skip the theatrics? Save yourself the trouble and tell me what I want to know. Where is he?”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I snap, my voice raw. Only this time, it’s the truth. I have no idea who he is talking about.
His hand slams against the foot of the bed behind me, and I flinch. “Wrong answer,” he growls, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”
I swallow hard, refusing to let the fear in my chest show. “Believe whatever you want, but it won’t change anything.”
Keres sighs, his frustration evident. “I was hoping we could avoid this,” he says almost regretfully. “But maybe I’m not offering the right motivation.”
Before the full weight of his words can settle in my mind, his hands grip the backs of my thighs and yank me toward him. The sudden movement knocks the air from my lungs as my back hits the cold marble floor. My head spins from the impact, but I barely have time to suck in a breath before his hand clamps around my jaw and his lips crush against mine.
Keres grinds against me, his arousal pressing into my pubic bone with enough force to make my stomach churn. I twist and struggle beneath him, disgust and fury warring for dominance in my gut. But whenhis other hand slips beneath my torn dress and brushes against my core, something inside me snaps. Fury wins.
I bite down on his lip, hard enough that the taste of copper floods my mouth. His blood coats my tongue, but I don’t stop until I feel him jerk back with a growl of pain. He rears up, laughing as if this is all a joke. His hand flies to his mouth, fingers coming away slick with blood. For a moment, he just stares at it, tilting his head like he’s admiring the color. Then, with deliberate slowness, he licks it clean, humming under his breath like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You don’t understand what’s at stake here, do you?” Keres says, his voice low and dangerous. “That weapon could change everything. For Eretria. For the world. And you’re standing in my way.”
His words are laced with something I can’t quite place—desperation, perhaps? It’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold, calculating mask he always wears. When Keres leans forward again, his hand grips my jaw with bruising force, and he pulls a small vial from his pocket. Before I can react, he tilts my head back and pours a thick, bittersweet liquid down my throat. I thrash, gagging as I try to spit it out, but he clamps his hand over my mouth and nose, cutting off my air. My lungs burn, and I have no choice but to swallow. The second the liquid slides down my throat, he lets me go, and I collapse back onto the floor, coughing and gasping for air.
“A parting gift,” he says casually, standing over me with that same satisfied smile. “Only the sweetest nectar for you. I call it mad honey, but I wouldn’t expect someone like you to have heard of it. I made it myself. Perhaps it’ll loosen your tongue.”
