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Riven
The chains pulse. They don’t just hold me, they consume me. Magic burrows into my skin, hooks itself into my marrow, and slithers through my veins like a living thing. Not steel. Not iron. Something far worse.
The cuffs at my wrists burn constantly, sending sharp, electric pulses through my arms, punishment. The links winding across my chest constrict every few minutes, crushing my ribs just enough to splinter them, to bruise deep, to remind me that I am theirs to break. The moment they loosen, my body knits itself back together, bone fusing, flesh mending, only for the cycle to start again. Over and over.
Agony. Reprieve. Agony.
I let my head drop forward, my breath ragged. The air here is thick, soured by something I refuse to name. My skin is damp with blood that isn’t mine or maybe it is, but I refuse to feel it, to acknowledge the slick warmth trickling down my ribs, staining the floor beneath me.
It doesn’t matter.
Pain has never mattered.
The only thing that does is waiting.
Because no cage has ever held me for long.
Footsteps echo through the chamber. Slow, unhurried. Familiar.
A voice, low, rich, edged with something sharp enough to cut. "You look like shit, brother."
My lips curl, dry and cracked. “Vaelrik.” I don’t bother hiding my distaste. “You still wasting your time licking blood from the floor, or did you finally learn how to clean up after yourself?”
A laugh. Deep, throaty. "You think that’s an insult? You wound me, truly."
I feel him more than I see him, the heat of his presence, the way the air warps around him, charged with violence waiting to be unleashed. My brother doesn’t breathe in magic the way I do, doesn’t turn pain into a blade he can wield.
Vaelrik thrives on carnage.
The more blood that spills, the stronger he becomes.
And right now?
He is sated.
The scent of it clings to him, fresh, coppery, thick with the kind of ruin that only comes from bodies torn apart too quickly to scream.
He’s been feeding.
"You should see what they’ve been doing outside," he muses, circling me like a predator sizing up something already ensnared. "They wanted to be merciful at first. Thought they could keep me entertained without making a mess. But Severin knows better." A pause. "They always break in the end."
I know what he’s doing. Taunting. Goading. Trying to get a rise out of me the way he always has, like we’re back at the Academy, standing in the ring, waiting for the first strike.
It won’t work.
I exhale slowly, lifting my gaze. “That’s the difference between us, Vaelrik.” My voice is raw, low. "You’ve never been interested in the fight. Just the killing."
His expression shifts, amusement flickering into something more dangerous. "And you think you’re better than me because of it?"
"No. Just smarter."
I watch the muscle in his jaw twitch, a slow, deliberate reaction that would go unnoticed by anyone else. But I know him. I know exactly how close he is to snapping, how easily he’d unravel if I pushed hard enough.
It used to be effortless, turning his rage against him, feeding the very hunger that made him reckless.
Now?
Now I don’t have time to waste on old games.