Page 100 of Daggermouth

Women were creatures of emotion, his father had taught him. They lacked the capacity for true logical thought, for understanding the complexities of governance and order. They required firm guidance, clear boundaries, consequences for transgression. Without these things, they became chaotic, destructive—like Lira last night, speaking out of turn, questioning his authority. Like Elara, teaching their daughter she had permission to be bold, an example of speaking out of turn.

The weakness spread through female blood like a disease. He’d seen it in his mother, that soft corruption that had ultimately required her elimination. He saw it in Elara, despite years of careful conditioning. And now in Lira, who’d somehow absorbed these poisonous ideas about equality, about women deserving voices in matters beyond their comprehension.

Elara was supposed to be one of the good ones. Maximus’s father had vetted her bloodline before they agreed to their Vow. All obedient. All submissive, all women that knew exactly where their place was kneeling at the feet of men.

His wife was the rotten apple.

“Do you remember your place now?” he asked, releasing her shoulder to resume his slow patrol around her trembling form. “Or shall we continue this lesson?”

The response was immediate—a frantic nodding that sent the chain into wild motion. Her legs buckled slightly, knees bending before she forced them straight again. The chain would hang her if she fell too far.

“Words, Elara. Use your words.”

The sounds that emerged were barely human, distorted by the mask’s interior design. But he’d had decades to learn this particular language of suffering. “Yes,” she was saying. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Yes, what?” He stopped behind her, close enough that she could feel his presence but not see him even if the mask allowed vision. “Be specific.”

More sounds, desperate now. Her whole body shook with the effort of remaining upright, of forcing words through the mask’s confines. “Know . . . place . . . know my place . . .”

“And will you speak out at my table again?”

A violent shake of her head, followed by strangled attempts at, “No, never, never again.”

Maximus considered extending the lesson. There was value in thoroughness, in ensuring the message had truly been absorbed. But he had other matters to attend to—Greyson, the rebellion growing in the rings, the approaching Vow ceremony, the reports from the military base that required his attention. Efficiency demanded he concluded this particular session.

He produced the key from his inner pocket, taking his time with the motion. Let her hear it, recognize it, feel that mixture of hope and dread that preceded release. The lock was positioned at the back of the mask and she went rigid as the key made contact, every muscle tensing.

The mechanism released with a soft click.

The mask came away like the jaw of a wild beast and Maximus pulled it from her head as he circled back to see her face.

She looked at him for one moment—just one—and he saw it there. The hatred. Concentrated loathing that no amount of training or punishment seemed to fully extinguish. It flickered and died as survival instincts reasserted themselves, replaced by the blank expression she’d perfected over the years.

Then her legs gave out entirely.

She crumpled to the concrete floor in a heap of torn fabric and damaged flesh, her body folding in on itself like a puppet who’d lost its crossbar. Her dislocated shoulder struck first, drawing a scream that she no longer had the strength to suppress.

Maximus stepped back, avoiding the sprawl of her limbs. She lay there gasping, chest heaving with desperate gulps of air. Her hands clawed weakly at the floor, trying to find purchase, trying to push herself up as training demanded. But her body had reached its limits. She could only lie there, shuddering with each breath.

He watched her struggle for a moment, cataloging the damage with detachment. Nothing permanent. Nothing that wouldn’t heal, nothing that would show beneath her clothing. He’d been precise, as always. Another reason for the mask. It was for her own protection, really, so her face would remain safe from her lessons. The bruises would fade, the cuts would close, the shoulder could be reset. By the time of the Vow ceremony, she’d be presentable again.

The perfect wife, the perfect mother to the Heart.

“Miranda,” he called, his voice carrying to the corridor beyond.

The maid appeared within seconds—she’d been waiting, knowing the routine. An older woman, Cardinal born but elevated to his service through years of perfect obedience. She took in the scene beneath her simple servant’s mask.

“Clean her up,” Maximus instructed, turning toward the door. “Reset the shoulder first—she’ll need full mobility for her public appearances and to complete her plans for the Vow ceremony. I want her presentable within twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, President,” Miranda murmured, already moving toward her.

He paused at the threshold, looking back at his wife’s broken form.

“And, Elara?” He waited until her eyes focused on him, until he was certain she was listening. “Remember that Lira is at the age whereher Vow must be considered. I would hate for her to require similar instruction in wifely duties.”

The threat landed perfectly. He saw it in the way her body tensed, the way her fingers curled into fists around her dirty clothes. Maternal instinct—another weakness, but a useful one when properly leveraged.

Maximus climbed the stairs without hurry, leaving the sounds of Miranda’s ministrations behind. Each step took him farther from the necessity below and back toward the refined spaces where the Heart’s business was conducted. The transition was seamless. He’d made it hundreds of times.