Chapter 52: Learning the third form
The cell was plunged into a heavy, almost suffocating silence, broken only by Mordred’s still jerky breathing, his breath knocked back by the all-consuming rage rumbling inside him. Every muscle in his body tensed, as if his very flesh were trying to contain a fire ready to reduce everything to ashes.
Opposite him, Lysiria looked at him with that elusive expression, that slight smile floating between amusement and satisfaction, as if she alone understood the extent of the chaos she had just instilled in him. Her amber eyes, piercing and unfathomable, seemed to peer far beyond his broken-slave appearance, as if she divined what lay beneath the surface, behind every tense muscle, behind every measured breath, behind the icy fury he tried in vain to stifle.
And then she laughed.
A soft, light sound, barely more than a breath, but it sounded like a slap in Mordred’s face.
He didn’t move, but he felt her fists clench even tighter, her nails digging into the calloused skin of his palms. His whole body was a dam about to burst, and yet she openly mocked his condition.
As he opened his mouth to spit out his hatred, she beat him to it.
- Don’t forget our agreement, Mordred.
Her voice was calm, poised, but tinged with that natural authority, that absolute certainty that he couldn’t change a thing. She knew she’d trapped him, that he’d never be able to back down now, because the simple fact of having agreed to listen to her had already bound him to her.
And then, in a fluid, controlled movement, she slowly approached, traversing the space of the cell as if she owned every inch of it, as if the dirty, damp walls, the rusty chains, the stench of sweat and blood had no power over her.
Mordred didn’t move, but he felt his breath become shorter, not from any disturbance, but from the icy intensity of the hatred he felt at that moment.
She leaned slightly towards him, enough for her subtle perfume-a mixture of smoke and distant spices-to tickle his nostrils.