Augustus isn’t listening.
Hollow eyes stare at the burnt remains of his brother’s corpse. There is nothing there anymore.
No life.
No light.
Just an emptiness that I understand, and still, I cannot bring myself to gather even an ounce of remorse or pity. The vile taste lingering at the back of my throat can only be boiled down to disgust.
At him.
At myself.
Imagine living in a world where such agony is necessary. Such senseless loss. Does my justice make me better than the blood I’ve spilled? Am I the victor because I have a demon and they can never fight back?
I am not sorry for the blood on my hands and perhaps that makes me a different kind of monster.
The low, squelching sound of something firmly wedged in a wet socket being plucked free has my focus returning to the scene laid out before me.
It’s unclear what Veyn is doing from my angle. His head is bent, his body a wall standing between me and whatever has Augustus sobbing hysterically.
I do notice the thin cascade of crimson flowing steadily along the rivulets in the altar. They drizzle over the edge and down the side. I cock my head to catch the end source, but it seems to get absorbed by the table.
“Please,” Augustus whines as something pops and he makes a long, keening sound of torture.
Bernard continues to make that weak noise of someone in too much pain to so much as breathe.
“Don’t worry. You will have your turn,” Veyn assures him as he continues at his task.
Whatever his goal had been is achieved and he straightens. Something is tucked away into his pocket before he’s facing Augustus.
“Brothers,” he murmurs, rubbing his palms together, smearing the blood across his skin. “They are such infuriating nuisances, but we tolerate them, don’t we? As the eldest, it’s almost our jobs.”
“He never did anything,” Augustus mumbles with no emotion.
“Oh, we both know that isn’t true. His hands may not be as dirty as yours, killing people, but his sins are far worse, aren’t they, Bernard?”
The man on the table croaks.
He’s no longer steaming, but his entire body is a hard, black crust. An overcooked chunk of meat.
“Just … stop. Please,” Augustus cries.
Veyn’s solution to that request is to reach between Bernard’s open cavity and pluck out the charred remains of his heart.
“Isn’t that what all those little girls begged him to do when he’d get his hands on them? They’d beg him to stop. They’d cryand try to fight. But they never stood a chance, and you knew about it. Hands, please.”
The resistance is unmistakable but still Augustus’s hands come up. Veyn sets the heart into his palms.
Still faintly beating.
“You will not die quickly. Neither of you. I will make certain of it. Your hell is my playground, and I will enjoy inflicting every torture you have committed on others onto you. You will feel every second of their fear and agony, but you will never die. It will never stop. Dain. Rase.”
The chamber dims as if someone turned the brightness down on the candles. The air plummets to a cold that has me pulling my knees to my chest.
Faintly, somehow in the chamber, something thick falls from the ceiling. It strikes a puddle with a plop. The corners breathe slightly like the shadows have come to life. They expand, blooming across the dusty floors in the direction of the dais. In the silence that follows, I hear the faint tinkle of metal. Fine, delicate. The kind of clink dozens of fishhooks would make in the breeze.
No mist.
