Abolisher [Drothiker #2]

7.

Guards entered the dungeons today.

Vendrik hadn't the strength to even brace himself as their steps echoed in the stones of the empty hallway outside his cell.

Four—he counted, before he slightly lifted his lids to catch four silhouettes sliding into his cell with a warrior's grace. Four, to handle one man. Even as each ounce of life was leeched out of him, Vendrik huffed out a laugh.

Which, in turn, earned him a jab to his stomach. He doubled over as pain shot through his weak body, chains shackling his arms up clanked to the stone.

Another punch came, to the jaw this time. Vendrik tasted the blood before it slid down his lips, his neck.

And they went on.

These men—he recognized them, had fought alongside them multiple times.

Jainre, Luca, Birex, Susac.

Even as he couldn't perceive their faces in the dark cell through the fuzzy sight, Vendrik recognized the way Luca landed a blow—his sharp knuckles did more damage than the impact. Birex was a giant, his massive arm could dislodge Vendrik's head off his body in a single blow if struck right. But he would do no such thing—simply because he wasn't commanded to. Susac was slimmer than the rest, but fought with a deadly grace.

Jainre was the shy one—the loyal one. He just stood beside and watched as the others did the work. But he wouldn't say a word against it, no—that loyalty was more useful to Queen Felset than to Vendrik, even if it killed him slowly, churned his goodness.

Vendrik didn't blame him—he blamed none of them. They were just trying to survive and avoid a merciless end.

All four had come together, because they knew even in this condition, even with no life, if anyone had come alone, Vendrik would have been the one to emerge from the cell. But four ... he couldn't handle four.

And this beating ... precautions were necessary before they freed his hands from the wall. And they weren't gentle when they did. Vendrik's wrists bled before they were constricted in different chains. Each muscle in his arms strained when they came down—bones seemed to groan in pain—from having been up for so long. Vendrik couldn't help the grunt, even as he didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

None of them said a word as Luca practically dragged Vendrik out of the cell—others following suit. Then out of the dungeons.

Vendrik's eyes burned at the onslaught of light, and snapped shut. And just as soon, a sack was shoved over his head, blocking his sight entirely.

Luca tugged at the chains harshly enough that Vendrik scrambled a step forward. He felt wet grass beneath his feet as they walked, the cool wind grazing his bare torso like ice on scorching coal.

He heard the rustle of trees, tasted the sweetness of morning air as it seeped into his waist-length hair and grazed his sweat-slick scalp. As it coiled his wounded, bleeding wrists beneath the chains.

Eternity—he'd been in those dungeons for eternity. He didn't care how long he'd been there, how much had he been tortured, his fire suffocated—not really—not as long as his agony resulted in Ryle's freedom. Not as long as his friend was free of that bitch's clutches at last, hopefully plotting her death.

Vendrik would gladly pay the price for Azryle's salvation.

He'd watched his friend getting broken, and made, and broken again. Watched as he was abused every day, tortured. Watched as he'd been toyed with over and over and over for three centuries.