Flashes. Bits and pieces. That's all I remember now. The entire ordeal feels like a fever dream.
As I speak this aloud, bear with me. Let me speak freely—to piece it all together.
My defilement…
I remember the rocky path. The jarring peaks, the deep nooks and crannies, the wheels fell into. Each jolt snapped my head back and forth as I began to rouse myself out of my stupor.
My head hung over the back of a wagon, covered and dangling, the rough sack scratching against my face. My neck was stiff and sore. I tried to lift it, to see past the heavy cloth, but it was useless. The only thing I could make out was the faint light of the sun shining through the fibers. It was day.
The next day? Or…?
I gave up trying to figure it out. My thoughts swirled and scattered.
Movement was futile. I was bound tightly from chest to ankles. The most I could do was squirm and shift in the dark, trying to understand where I was and what surrounded me.
My fingers brushed against something. A hand.
The skin was cold and stiff. Muck had coagulated on the palm, sticky and foul.
I lay there, petrified for a few moments.
It didn't move. It didn't grasp mine in return.
Realization settled like a stone in my stomach: I had been hidden among the dead.
They'd buried me beneath corpses.
The stench hit me next—rotting flesh, dried blood, excrement, and sickness. I gagged, my body convulsing as I tried not to make a peep. I curled inward, silent. Terrified. Frozen.
Looking back, I suppose I was playing dead.
Minutes passed. Then came the voices—male, coarse, and uncaring.
"Finally! A fucking day's ride over!"
The speaker's voice was deep and rasping. Another man responded, lighter in tone but no less crass.
"Mhmmmm," he said. "I can't wait for Olga's stew tonight. And the biscuits. Oooh, the biscuits… Me and the hunters wasted the last two days tracking a huge boar that was scaring off the children nearby. We caught up to that raging beast, and Walter, bless the lad; stood his ground with spear in hand as it charged. Got his arm nearly torn off, but gave us the time to bring it down."
"Stop your bellyaching," the first voice barked. "Why the fuck did they give me such a disgusting freak to work with? My company's beyond the likes of you. Fucking blubbering fool."
"That wasn't very nice to say, sir. You hurt Pike's feelings, that you did," the other replied, his voice light with witty innocence.
"Like I care. Just drive this damn mule. The smell is unbearable."
I imagined them seated up front, eyes fixed on the path ahead. Maybe—just maybe—I could slip off the back. Maybe I could crawl into some brush, wiggle free, and escape.
Wishful thinking.
But what are thoughts without actions?
With that spark of will, I began to move. Slowly. Carefully. Inch by inch, I pushed my body upward, trying not to make a sound. They had buried me under two, maybe three bodies. I needed to slip out without alerting them.
An hour passed. My upper torso was free.
Just a little more.
One good jerk, and I slipped out of the pile, tumbling backward off the wagon.
My body hit the ground with a splash—muddy water spraying into the air.
"What the hell was that?" Pike snapped, pulling on the reins.
"How should I know?"
"Stop. Stop the fucking thing! Look! Look there—our lioness awakens!"
He bellowed with a wet, phlegm-rattled laugh.
"Aww, you squirming away from us, lioness?" he called, likely watching me as I tried to crawl into the dirt. "Roderic! You're the muscle; go get her and knock her out! Just don't kill her. We don't get paid if she's dead."
I heard the two men scuffle, a quick spat between them, then a growl of defiance.
"I don't take fucking orders from you," Roderic snarled. "Remember that, you dirty little shit."
I barely had time to breathe before I felt his weight crash down on me.
Then came the blows.
One after another. A club slamming into my skull, again and again. My own blood filled my mouth. My vision went red.
Darkness swallowed me.
I awoke to screams...
"I told you! I told you not to touch her face!"
"Apologies, my lord," Pike whimpered, pain apparent in his tone.
"Roderic! I expected more from you. I should have known better. You're just some wench's mistake—a big-for-nothing bastard. You're lucky you didn't cut her face. I need her intact, idiots. How is she to answer me if she hasn't got her mind?"
My head spun. My eyes were nearly sealed shut, the blood crusted so thick I had to blink several times before they opened. My arms wouldn't move; I was chained. Worse. I was hoisted up, hanging from a wooden slab set at an angle.
Tears welled in my eyes, loosening the dried blood. Slowly, painfully, I opened them.
The sight stole my breath and dropped my heart deep into a place I never knew existed in my body.
I was in a torturer's chamber.
Bodies lay sprawled all about across the room—some mangled, some possibly still breathing, none of them moving. Chains clinked in the stale air.
And on the far wall, above the only door, hung the torturous tools.
Rusted blades, iron spikes, wooden clubs stained with age and blood.
More screaming pulled my attention.
A sickening crack rang out, followed by the sound of a body hitting the stone floor.
"Ahhhhhhh!" Roderic yelled out.
"You took too long to answer," Raymon said coldly. "So I'll just take what is rightfully mine from your flesh. Pike, hold him still."
Roderic's screams pierced through the room. It was the sound of a man who knew his own death had arrived.
Then—another voice. Softer. Female.
"Raymon. Stop this at once."
That voice…
Raymon. He did this… That treacherous dog, I said to myself.
"If you mutilate your subjects, how will they ever be loyal?" she said calmly. "Have I taught you nothing?"
"You taught me that insolence should never be tolerated," he answered. "I'm punishing them as I see fit."
"Really? Cutting off an ear is just punishment? What, may I ask, was his offense?"
"He nearly blinded Justine's right eye."
Footsteps approached. A shadow moved toward the iron-barred window in the door. I strained to see.
A woman. Half her face hidden in shadow.
And then I saw her. I knew her.
My aunt.
Lysa Orwill, the Baroness of Barcelona.
"I see," she said, peering at me.
She stood there for a moment, eyes locked, face unreadable. I did my best to act as if I was still unconscious.
The punishment isn't severe enough, she murmured.
"Raymon."
"Yes, Mother?" he replied.
A long silence followed.
Then a desperate cry.
"No! No, please—give me another chance! Please!"
Then came the sound of choking, gurgling, and flesh tearing.
"Pike, dispose of this trash," Raymon ordered. "I'll continue our conversation as soon as she awakens. Stand guard and—"
"No, wait. Pike—open the door," the Baroness commanded.
"She's still out cold, Mother. I'll send for you when she wakes."
"I've been doing this longer than you, my dear son. I know when a prisoner is faking."
Pike obeyed without question. The door creaked open.
And the Baroness of Barcelona stepped into the chamber…