Page 48

48

SEREN

P ain is an old companion, but this… this is something else entirely.

It slithers down my spine, a slow and insidious thing, coiling around my ribs before sinking its claws into my flesh. My knees slam against the cold marble floor of Jalith’s throne room, muscles spasming as another jolt tears through my body.

I refuse to scream.

The gathered dark elves watch in silence, their amusement veiled behind sharp, impassive faces. Their prince sits atop a lavish throne, legs crossed, fingers lazily drumming against the gilded armrest.

Jalith’s lips curl into something almost gentle.

"Still so stubborn, little one," he muses, his voice a silk-wrapped dagger. "I wonder how much longer you can last."

My teeth grind against the agony searing my bones, but I lift my chin, glaring at him through strands of sweat-dampened hair.

He wants submission. Wants me trembling. Wants my pride shattered into dust at his feet.

I will give him nothing.

A flick of his fingers. The magic woven into the collar constricts, dragging me forward until my palms slap against the floor. The pain does not come in waves. It is a drowning, a devouring. My body seizes, nerves set ablaze by unseen hands.

A sharp gasp escapes before I can swallow it down.

Jalith hums, pleased.

I will kill him.

I will carve that satisfaction from his face with my bare hands.

My vision blur. My breaths come in ragged gulps, sweat trickling down my back.

"You’re strong," he says, full of admiration, but it makes my stomach churn. "But everything breaks eventually."

I force my weight onto my heels, forcing my shaking limbs to hold me upright. The floor beneath me tilts, but I lock my spine, refusing to collapse.

Jalith’s amusement deepens.

He lifts his hand again.

The collar pulses.

A scream rips free, unbidden.

The world shatters into raw, unrelenting agony.

The sound of my own voice is distant, like something detached from me entirely. The pain becomes a living thing, burrowing into my skin, wrapping around my throat like unseen chains.

It stops.

Air rushes back into my lungs, my body trembling from exertion. The silence presses down. I lift my gaze, hatred burning brighter than the fire in my veins.

Jalith watches, patient, expectant.

"Say it," he commands softly.

My heart pounds against my ribs.

"Beg."

I would rather die.

I fist my nails as I steady my breath, forcing my voice to remain level. "You’ll have to try harder than that."

His smile sharpens, but his gaze darkens.

"Such fire," he murmurs. "It makes me eager to see how quickly it fades."

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his expression shifting into something thoughtful. "You believe you hate me, little one. But hate is merely passion turned sour. And passion…" His eyes gleam. "Is the foundation of devotion."

Revulsion curdles in my gut.

He is not simply tormenting me.

He is waiting. Watching. Measuring how long I will fight before I fall.

The realization settles like a stone in my stomach.

Jalith is in no rush.

He has three days until the ceremony. Three days to mold me into something else.

"You will learn, eventually," he murmurs. "To kneel. To obey. To crave."

I spit blood onto the pristine floor between us.

His gaze flickers to it, then back to me.

He laughs.

The sound is a dark, terrible thing. "So eager to make this difficult for yourself."

His hand lifts once more.

Pain crashes over me like a tidal wave, drowning my defiance in its wake.

I don’t remember hitting the floor.

But I do not beg.

I will never beg.