Chapter 122: Between the Spite and the Stone
The tent swallowed light like a grave that refused a funeral.
Inside, the air reeked of iron and cracked skin. Soot from old torches settled across the canvas like forgotten ash. The only sound was breath—uneven, strained, laced with pain.
Amari sat bound to a splintered chair, wrists tied so tight the rope had worn through two layers of skin. Shylo was beside him, chest rising with quiet steadiness. Both were upright. Still. Silent.
The others had already been worked over.
Maverick’s head hung low, blood smearing his jaw and temple, each breath rattling in his chest like thunder that had lost its roar. Kenneth had one eye swollen shut, and when he inhaled, it was shallow—like every rib protested movement. Milo twitched faintly, but hadn’t spoken in hours. Johnny barely responded when Kael passed by—his gaze fixed forward, his silence total.
Kael stood at the center of the tent like the eye of a brutal storm. His coat brushed the dirt floor softly, almost ceremonial in its stillness. Beside him, a metal table waited—lined with tools that didn’t shine, didn’t gleam. They dared.
Hooks dulled from overuse.
Blades crusted with dried blood.
Aura extractors, vibrating faintly, calibrated to strip pain from the deepest pulse.
He sighed once and looked to the prisoners.
"They all broke," he said, gesturing toward the others. "Eventually. Whether with screams or silence. But they gave us nothing."
He turned to Amari.