“Does Solas enjoy hiding?” My voice croaks, and I cough.
He blinks but quickly masks his surprise.
“Just because you’ve blocked my ability to talk to Tairn doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly what you’ve done to me.” My lip splits again when I force a smile. “You’re hunting Xaden. But Tairn is hunting Solas. You’re the weaker on both counts. I might die in this chamber, but I promise you will.”
“Just because I can’t kill you without losing my target doesn’t mean I won’t shatter you over and over until he arrives. We’re going to have fun, you and I.” He stands, then brushes his hands on the thighs of his uniform before walking out. I hear his faint words through the door: “Call Nolon in. We need to start fresh.”
But Varrish is wrong. Xaden won’t come. He’ll choose the safety of the revolution. I’m now one of the people he can’t save. I just have to hope that everyone is wrong, that he’ll survive my death.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper to Liam. I don’t care that I’m far gone enough to hallucinate, that my brain is using Liam as a crutch as long as he stays, as long as I’m not alone.
“I won’t. I swear.”
...
Drip. Drip. Drip. I lose track of the hours, the beatings, the questions I refuse to answer.
Nolon visits twice, or maybe it’s three times.
Life is varying degrees of pain, but Liam never leaves. He’s there every time I open my eyes, watching, talking me through the torture, holding my sanity together while simultaneously proving it’s already left.
At least once a day, they chain me into the chair and force the serum down my throat, blocking me from Tairn. I eat the food they provide because survival matters most, and I sleep after each mending session, only to wake and be broken again and again.
My ribs are cracked thanks to a well-placed kick, and my left arm snaps in the same exact place Varrish broke it the first time, which tells me that not only am I not at full strength, Nolon isn’t, either.
“We could bring in Jack Barlowe if this doesn’t work.” Nora’s voice rises, bringing me fully awake from where I’ve dozed off in the chair. “Gods know he’s been waiting for retribution.”
“Tempting,” Varrish replies. “I’m sure he’d be happy to find new and inventive ways to motivate her, but we can’t trust him not to kill her. Can’t trust that kid for anything, really, can we? Too unpredictable.”
“Still can’t believe that fucker survived,” Liam mutters from where he stands leaned against the wall to the right of the door.
Gods, I’m sore and swollen at the broken places, and discolored on the bits of skin I can see. Everything hurts. I’m not even sure I’m me anymore as much as I am pain encased in a failing body.
But Rhiannon isn’t being put through this, or Ridoc, or Sawyer, or Imogen, or Quinn. Everyone I care about is safe. That’s what I grasp onto.
“You know, Sloane hates me,” I whisper.
“Sloane can be tough.” Liam shoots me an apologetic half smile. “You’re doing a good job.”
“Yeah, I’m a great role model.” It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes.
“You asked to see me, sir? Down here? There have to be a dozen guards in the stairwell.”
That voice. Fear slides down my spine, leaving chills in its wake as Liam’s head jerks toward the door.
Dain. I’m so fucked. We all are.
“I did,” Varrish responds. “I need your help. Navarre needs your help.”
“What can I do?”
I twist against the straps that hold me captive, but their buckles hold strong. “Stay calm,” Liam whispers, like any of them can hear him.
“We had a breach of security this week, and classified documents were stolen. We caught the perpetrator and prevented the loss of intelligence, but the prisoner...” There’s a dramatic pause. “It’s blatantly obvious by connection that this rider is working with what we suspect to be a second rebellion, intent on destroying Navarre. For the safety of every civilian within our wards, I need this prisoner’s memories, wingleader. You must extract the truth, or our very way of life will be compromised.”
Well, when he puts it that way. I pull against my bonds again, sending ricochets of agony through my nervous system. I have no shields. No way to block him out.
Everyone in Aretia is going to die, and it will be my fault.
“I’m going to warn you,” Varrish says gently. “The prisoner’s identity may come as a shock.” The door swings open before I can fully prepare myself.
Varrish walks in, leaving Dain standing in the doorway, his eyes wide as his gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my swollen, purple-splotched hands, bound to the arms of the chair, and the face I’m sure matches them. He can’t even see the worst of it under my uniform, the broken bones and contusions.
“Violet?”
“Please help me,” I whisper, even knowing I’m begging a Dain that no longer exists, the one I knew before he crossed the parapet, and not the hardened third-year in front of me.
“You’ve been torturing her for five days?” Dain accuses Varrish.
Five days? It’s only Thursday?
“Since she stole Lyra’s journal from the king’s private library?” Varrish sounds bored. “Absolutely. She might have been a childhood friend, Aetos, but we both know where her loyalties now lie—with Riorson and the war he’s planning against us. She wants to bring down the wards.”
