Page 40 of A Dance of Water (Moon Song #2)
FALLEN FROM GRACE
GRAVES
G raves loomed over the male. His golden hair was stringy around his face, golden eyes shining as he bore down against the pain inflicted upon him.
With his cowl and hood, Graves knew he appeared as an avenging angel.
Not quite , he huffed aloud at the thought, but some twisted fucked up version…
At the soft laugh, the male strained against the chains that kept his arms held aloft.
The rusted, enchanted chains wrapped tightly around his wrists, fixed to the ceiling.
The fae male before him was tall, a dominium, perhaps, if the strong, mature lines of his face were anything to go by.
He stood precariously on his tiptoes to relieve the strain on his shoulders from the taut chains.
"Please," the male moaned. "I only know what I’ve told you. Nothing more. The Tenebrae has my family…"
Graves hummed as he regarded the liar before him.
He was never one for talking, especially when torturing.
Mental torture was sometimes more effective than physical pain, and this male was nearing his breaking point simply from Graves and his shadowed countenance.
The threat of pain and suffering was enough to make one go mad.
He smirked under his cowl.
The air was dank and his boots stepped into a puddle of water—or piss, he didn’t know—as he faced off against Luella’s attacker.
"He has your family?" Graves stroked a gloved finger over the shattered bones in the male’s left wrist. He whimpered and tried to jerk back, but the action only made the chains pull against his ruined hand, and he let out a strangled yell.
"Y-yes," he blubbered. "He threatens to kill them if I don’t obey. Not just me, but he has leverage over all the able-bodied males and females of Solis."
Graves let the silence linger, walking around the male, standing at his back. He felt him shiver, not knowing what would happen next. A small cart stood at his side, gleaming knives with rusted, jagged edges—some blunt to draw the pain out and others sharp for precision.
He raked his eyes over the instruments, settling on one with detached interest.
"You’re innocent, then?" Graves picked up the thumbscrew and threw it in the air, catching it with a soft clink. The noise made the male flinch away from him.
"Yes."
The male whipped his head, tracking Graves as he came to stand before him again. His golden eyes flicked down, growing wide as Graves lifted the thumbscrew, the flickering light of the candles in their sconces casting shadows over the rusted, bloodied device.
"Then I should let you go?" Graves unscrewed the top, allowing enough space to fit the male’s fingers. It made a soft squeaking noise—music to his ears.
"I—" The male watched warily as Graves undid one of the chains on his right wrist, leaving his ruined left one held aloft.
The Knight left the chains wrapped around his hand, keeping the enchantments intact so the male would not be able to use his magic against him.
Finally, the male settled on, "Yes… y-you should let me go."
Graves took the male’s pointer finger and inserted it into the thumbscrew. The male’s hands shook so hard Graves was barely able to keep it on long enough to screw it a few times.
He winced but didn’t yell—not yet; it wasn’t tight enough to cause true pain.
"If that’s what you wish," Graves said without inflection .
Relief swept throughout the male’s features. "You’ll let me go?"
Graves nodded and turned the screw tighter. A little tighter.
Pain clouded his once-hopeful golden eyes, mouth opening with the beginnings of a scream.
"I’ll let you go," Graves uttered. "But I never said if you’d be alive or not."
And before the words could truly sink in, Graves turned the screw three times in quick succession, hearing the crack of a fingernail as it splintered under the force of the screw, then, the crack of bone. Skin caved in under the weight of the screw, blood spurting.
Graves smiled. Very good.
He had gotten the information he wanted a while ago. Now, it was time to play.
A few more screws and the male’s screams of pain echoed throughout the darkened halls of the dungeons.
Graves left the device on the male’s flattened, pulpy finger, grabbing a dull knife from the cart.
He rotated it in the light, allowing the amber flames to catch the serrated edges. He ripped the sleeves of the male’s shirt completely, rending it from his body, leaving only tattered pieces hanging from his shoulders. A bare canvas, ready for him to carve his pain into.
The Knight got to work, dragging the dulled edge over his torso; blood welled, and the male gritted his teeth to stop himself from screaming.
Not good enough. Graves dug the blade in deeper, allowing the rough, pointed side of it to cut tiny pieces of his skin away like leaves drifting from a tree. Ribbons of flesh decorated the blood-stained stone floors of the dungeons, and his skin was in tatters. Better.
Soon, his skin was a map of bloodied lines and open wounds. Digging the blade into the male’s forearm, Graves intoned, "Let every cut be a reminder that you should be careful of what you touch, lest your hands graze something that belongs to someone more powerful than you."
"Forgive me!" the male pleaded. Snot dripped from his nose as he cried, mixing with his tears.
"I’ve seen females withstand torture better than you. Pity, you fae are so weak." Graves seized the male’s shattered wrist, twisting it.
A strained yell pierced the air.
"You shouldn’t have touched her," Graves said simply.
The air shifted. Graves turned his head, feeling a presence behind him.
"No," said the Prima. "He shouldn’t have."