Another slap crashes against my face; my cheek numbs under the blow.
“Stop what now?” he snarls. His hand cracks across my face again, only to slap again. Three more strikes, each harder than the last, until he halts. My vision swims, my ears ring.
But when he stops, he doesn’t gloat. Instead, he stares. His face shifts, thick brows furrowing and draining into sothing else, sothing broken. His hand lingers against my shoulder, patting almost absentmindedly, as though he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. His mouth moves, lips trembling.
“How did I beco this miserable?” he whispers.
Breathing hard, each inhale scrapes fire down my throat. The light still stabs at my eyes—too bright—yet slowly the room begins to take shape around .
“What’s your na, Redhead?”
This ti, he speaks clearly. His eyes—piercing and bluish, the inner iris tinged with faint purple—cut straight through , searching for sothing buried deep, beyond my skin. His brows are thick, shadowing eyes that weigh like judgnt itself.
His skin is dark, bluish, nearly black, like so African descent, yet the hue of his blood shines faintly beneath it, a cold shimr that seems impossible under the dim light. His hair is short, streaked with gray, seemingly white in contrast to his skin.
I do not answer.
Slap.
His left hand rises and strikes my cheek; a sharp sting flares through my skin, and before being able to recover, he swings again, landing all across my other cheek.
Slap!
Coughing violently, each breath scorches, as if my lungs have been set afla from within. Pain shoots through my ribs, twisting around my spine. Yet, my lungs burst to breathe.
“Dam!” I manage at last, each syllable rasping in my mother’s tongue. “My na is Damian!”
“Good, Dam, but don’t talk in the Gods’ tongue unless you want to lose your tongue.” His voice is guttural and hard-spoken. The accent carries the sa sharp edges as mine, every letter struck with careful force, yet there is sothing alien in the way it resonates in this room. “This... what you’ve brought upon yourself, is both the best and worst thing that could happen to any low-blooded.”
Blinking, my thoughts spin; sweat beads along my temples, as his harsh voice enters my aching ears. My chest burns as if a fire smolders behind my ribs, yet I nod.
“Right... right,” I whisper, my voice trembling. The blue-skinned oversees , “You’ve lost blood, and you had internal wounds. I fixed so parts, but I’ll have to fix you even more... until your first fight.”
Glancing down at my legs, my body is bound, arms and legs restrained, chest and stomach strapped to a chair like a grotesque dental contraption.
I can move only slightly, just enough to flex my fingers, my mind racing even as pain shoots in every direction. Attempting to ground myself, my breathing slows down.
“Say, ahh,” the only man in this room, together with , commands. He leans close, the scent of iron and sothing acrid filling my nostrils.
He laughs—light, casual, like a joke only he understands—and presses sothing sharp against my arm. A pang bursts through , my muscles twitching, limbs trembling under the sudden assault.
Heat and pain twist together, burning and numb at once, until the fire behind my ribs fades, diluted into pastel shades that crawl across my vision.
Suddenly, a voice erupts—but not from him. Not from anyone. It is within my mind, alien and impossible.
Share your thoughts and mories; share your flesh and bones, the divine blood flowing through your veins, that it may entwine once again into one soul.
I recognize it—or at least think I do. It hovers at the edges of my mory, familiar yet impossible to grasp. Like a déjà vu, repeating itself through countless monts I cannot entirely place. Still, I forget about it; only the absence of light follows.
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