Lionhearts ||Skephalo||

11

Bad coughs, hacking ash out of his lungs. It's almost impossible to breathe without inhaling some, and he's dizzy, sick from the heat and the pain in his side, the burning of the brands that's starting to slowly fade away.

He didn't look at them, he didn't want to know what was burned into his skin. He wanted to cry, to curl up and hide from them so they couldn't hurt him any more- at this point he was willing to serve them. He was willing to do whatever it took to prevent him from experiencing the pain again. Twice was two times too many for his body.

He can feel the tension in his side gradually releasing. He assumes he's finally getting used to it.
But when the brute returns to drag him out once again, it narrows its eyes and growls at him, hefting him by his wrists,

"What did you do? What magecraft is this?"
Bad yelps, and begins to whimper, dangling compliantly as the brute shakes him.

"I-I didn't do- I didn't do anything, I swear! I don't know what you're asking me!"
His earnest reply is met with another shake, and a finger jabbing his side where the burns litter his skin.
Had littered his skin.

"They're gone," the brute snarls, "You don't have any scars or anythin'. It's magecraft. Who did this? Are you the mage?" Bad begins to shake his head, terror closing his throat.
He wasn't! He had never been trained, never showed any magical aptitude. He wasn't a mage!
Despite this, he can't open his mouth to tell him, can't explain anything. He can't tell him to please stop pulling so hard on his arms, that it really hurts.
He can only limply allow himself to be manhandled, afraid of worse consequences.

"Mages are uncommon," the brute finally concludes his manhandling, seeing Bad won't talk. "And they are dangerous. Do you know what we do to lying, sneaky mages?"

"I'm not a mage," Bad's voice cracks, breaking, and his eyes are filled with tears of both pain and fear. This earns him another shake.

"The burns are gone and nobody else is in your fucking cell, don't play dumb," it snarls, spitting in his face with the force of its words. Bad can hear his heartbeat, and feel it in every part of his body. Adrenaline is flooding him uselessly, since he refuses to fight back and risk being hurt worse or heaven forbid, killed.

"Well, we break them," the brute continues. Bad begins to shake, his body cold despite the heat around him. "We push them until their foul magic leaves them. We don't fight alongside mages anymore, you're all traitors as far as we're concerned. Filthy, conniving, traitors."

Break them.

Bad's mind begins to run wild with what this could mean, each new possibility worse than the last. He doesn't know how he healed like that! He didn't do it!
The brute begins to haul him into the hall again, and behind its back, the piglin guard taps Bad's back, the terrified human wrenching his head around to look back at it.
It offers him a faint smile, and holds up the pocket watch for a second; a reminder of their bargain, their alliance. It tucks it away and resumes standing, but it's a small reassurance to Bad.

He follows along meekly, knowing if he stops he'll just be dragged anyways. He loses track of the way after a while; it's just winding halls of nether brick, the heat of lava all around them, the soft trills of distant Ghasts drifting through the windows and the unwelcome sound of magma cubes bouncing atop the roof. They pass a tall, ashen skeleton, its stone sword honed to an edge Bad wouldn't have thought possible. Despite his certainty that he isn't a mage, he can feel a darkness coming from the sword, like a plague that leeches away the life of whatever it touches, withering all living things alike.
It follows him with empty eyesockets, staring through him hauntingly. He has no doubt that it would cut his throat given the chance, leave him to slowly drain of life on the dark maroon bricks.