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I don’t even bother to analyze whether a new Gift flows within me. “Fuck…you,” I growl and then spit at him. He backhands me, and my head snaps back painfully. Sparkles fill my vision as I watch him pick up a mallet with a solid iron head as thick as my calf.

He gives me a little tap on the knee of my left leg and watches me jolt slightly, my involuntary reaction widening his smile. Something is trickling down my face—blood or sweat, I’m not sure. I let my lids hang lazily, eyeing his face, trying to make a pointed effort to ignore the mallet in his hands. Excitement flitters across his face as he lifts the mallet with both hands, bringing it down on my kneecap.

I scream so hard that the old injury in my ribs protests. Or maybe it’s because my body is throwing itself against the straps holding me down. Now I know why Lyss didn’t feed me—it most definitely would’ve come back up. Retching up bile beside me, my throat burns from the scream and now the acid. I’m still writhing in my seat, unable to find a position that doesn’t put pressure on my leg in some way.

At least I haven’t pissed myself. Yet. There’s still time.

Putting the mallet down, the imposter king kneels by my mangled knee. He makes an exaggerated pouting face, asking if it hurts enough, before poking the mess where my kneecap used to be. Fresh pain alights all down my leg into my toes and up into my hip. My vision sways as the king stands up to watch me.

Coming around to stand behind me, he pulls my head back onto the ledge. A strap is secured across my forehead, and now I cannot lift my head. He disappears for a moment, coming back with that deranged smile on his face.

“Sometimes,” he says, leaning over my face with fetid breath. “The horror is enough when you are already in pain. Please do tell me if your Gift manifests. I do not want to be wasting our time.”

His cold thumb pulls my left eyelid open and holds it. A thin sewing needle moves into my vision as he slowly pierces it into my eye. It’s uncomfortable, and my sight warps as the globe of my eye takes the pressure. My vision swims with red and black before the pain shoots into my head. My broken fingers scream in protest at my attempt to ball my fists.

I’m panting as he leaves the needle in my eye and returns with another. Again, I feel an uncomfortable pressure as he pushes it in, and again, the pain lances into my head as it reaches the intended depth. It takes six needles for me to lose consciousness.

My body launches forward with a scream as I lean over, dry retching. There is not even bile as my stomach cramps in protest and tries so hard to bring up something. I fall out of my chair to my hands and knees as my stomach tries again to vomit, my eyes watering from the task. Lyss runs over, smoothing my hair back, clicking her tongue.

Finally, I sit back in a reprieve from the unsuccessful vomiting. My vision is fine, and so are my fingers and the knee that had been smashed to oblivion.

“How did you even fix my knee?” I ask Lyss, rubbing it, expecting some pain.

“Slowly. I had to ask him to allow Zinniani—one of the others—to help me with everyone else while I worked on you. You have been out a whole day.” She helps me back into my chair, bringing me some barely warm broth to drink.

I hug the cup in my hands as if it were hot tea, glaring at nothing, planning how I will kill the king. It delights me to think about how no one will know. Surely, if he cannot hold his shape while sleeping, his death will be the same. The king will disappear, and a random dead Patron will be left in his place. I’m focusing so hard on how I am going to kill him that I don’t notice Lyss speaking to me. “Sorry, what?” I ask after she waves her hand in my face.

“Get some bread down if you can. He will be coming for you again in the morning. Unless…Do you feel any different?” she asks, almost pleading. “He stops when you manifest.”

No. I’m exactly the same. I am missing a few more intangible bits and pieces, but I was never whole to begin with. I shake my head and start eating the bread, going back to planning the king’s death. I need more time. I need a weapon. I confirm with Lyss that it’s always two people who come down with him. I can kill three people. The only problem, besides my lack of weapon, is not knowing what Gifts his men have. Lyss isn’t sure what they are, either.

I’ll kill them when they try to strap me to the chair. And then wait for the imposter King Oferdu.

Unfortunately, I’m barely able to stand, let alone fight, when they—the same two men as before—come for me a few hours later. I’m strapped back into the chair, the patch of bile I vomited up still marring the ground. My wrists are bound with palms facing up this time.

“My dear!” the king announces with a flourish as he rounds into the room, not even looking at his two men. The man with the feral smile again brings in the trolley of torture tools at a click of the king’s fingers before standing sentry outside the cave doorway—exactly like the first time.

“You are looking well. Lyss says that nothing has manifested yet. What a shame,” he says with exaggerated disappointment, a feral delight in his eyes. How much of this is about manifesting Gifts, and how much is actually about the torture itself? I will kill this man, and I will make it as painful as possible.

He clicks his fingers, and the second man enters. The pig winks, kissing the air once at me. The king grabs a metal fire poker and holds it toward the man, not taking his eyes off me. If he wants to see how I’ll react, I’ll give him nothing. I can see the action out of the corner of my eye as I continue to stare at Stol’s mouth. Not his eyes. I can stand his eyes even less than everyone else’s.

The room brightens slightly, the Patron heating the poker with a blue flame from the palm of his hand. When the poker is glowing red, the king immediately stabs it into my left calf. The searing pain is blinding, but smelling my own flesh burning is another experience entirely.

He holds it there long enough while I scream and writhe in pain that the poker has begun to cool. I’m dizzy and trying to catch my breath as he rips the poker away. Some of my flesh rips with it, and I scream again.

He swaps the fire poker for what looks like a thick metal knitting needle sharpened to a deadly point. He traces the skin along my palms up to my elbow and then back down. Those violet fucking eyes watch my face as he stabs the needle through the center of my forearm. I know I’m screaming, but I can’t hear a thing as I watch him stab my palm with such force that my hand lifts a little. The needle embeds into the armrest under my hand.

Leaving the needle where it is, he leans down into my line of vision, and I see his mouth ask, “Anything?”. I try to say, “Fuck you!” but he wiggles the needle around violently while it’s still impaling my hand.

This shouldn’t be as painful as yesterday, yet the agony is like a chorus. My nerve endings remember the pain from yesterday even though Lyss healed me. I close my eyes. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Iimagine kissing Sweet Girl’s muzzle, stroking her stupidly fluffy ears. Bitty’s dimpled grin comes bounding up on Applemint, who starts nudging me for sweets. Beans pats my shoulder, looking down at me with paternal affection in his eyes before going to stand by Applemint. Bitty leans over and kisses the top of the old man’s shaved head. Tovi is on the other side of Sweet Girl, and she throws a beetleberry at me, smiling before plopping another in her mouth.

I hear the name “Firecat,” and everyone disappears. There is only Riley.

He and I are alone in the Nemoris forest, frasteria petals sprinkling down on us like snow. Tucking a flower behind my ear, he brushes my hair back so he can kiss my neck.