Malphas's legs quivered from exhaustion and pain. Chained facing the back wall of his cell, he tried to rest his chest against it to lessen the strain on his legs, tried to ignore the tension in his shoulders and neck.

The tears came, slow and silent at first, then building into rib-squeezing, racking sobs of pent-up grief. The surly guard had performed the beating. Not his back this time but his legs. Not a whip to cut, but a thick leather strap to pound against muscle stretched tight. Working to a slow drum rhythm, the guard had applied the strap with care, making each stroke overlap the one before so that no flesh was missed. Down and back, down and back. Except for the breath hissing between his teeth, Malphas had made no sound.

When it was finally done, he had been hauled to his feet—feet too brutalized to take his weight—and fitted with Magus's latest toy; a metal chastity belt. It locked tight around his waist but the metal loop between his legs wasn't tight enough to cause discomfort. He had puzzled over it for a moment before being forced to walk to his cell. There wasn't room for anything but the pain after that. And when he got to the cell, he understood only too well what was supposed to happen.

There was a new, thick-linked chain attached to the back wall. The bottom loop of the belt was pulled through a slot in the band around his waist and the chain was locked to it. The chain wasn't long enough for him to do anything but stand and if his legs buckled, it wouldn't be his waist absorbing his weight. No doubt Magus was being oiled and massaged while he waited for his scream of agony.

That wasn't reason enough to cry. Slime mould had begun forming on his wings. Without a cleansing, it would spread until his wings were nothing more than greasy strings of membranous skin hanging from the frame. He couldn't spread his wings in the salt mine without being whipped, and now his hands were chained behind his back each night, locking his wings tight against a body coated with salt dust and dripping with sweat.

He had told Ipos once he would rather lose his balls than his wings and he had meant it. But that wasn't reason enough to cry.

He hadn't seen the sun. Except for the few precious minutes each day when he was led from his cell to the salt mines and back again, he hadn't breathed clean air or felt a breeze against his skin. His world had become two dark, stinking holes—and a covered courtyard where he was stretched out on the stones and regularly beaten.

But that wasn't reason enough to cry.

He had been punished before, beaten before, whipped before, and locked in dark cells before. He had been sold into service before. He had always responded by fighting with all the savagery within him, becoming such a destructive force they would send him back in order to survive.

He hadn't once tried to escape from Red Embrace, hadn't once unleashed his volatile temper to rend and tear and destroy. Not that many years ago, Magus and the guards' blood would have been splashed over the walls of this place and he would have stood in the rubble filling the night with a battle cry of victory.

But that was when he had still believed in the myth, the dream. That was when he had still believed that one day he would meet the Reconciler, who, would accept him, understand him, and value him. Meeting him had been his dream, a sweet, ever-blooming flower in his soul. The Lord of the Black Mountain. The Demon Earl of The Omens.

Then the dream became flesh—now he had killed a child. That was reason to grieve. For the loss of the Lord he had ached to serve, for the loss of the one he thought he could trust.

Now there was only emptiness, despair so deep it covered his soul like the slime mould was covering his wings. There was only one dream left. The ache in his chest finally eased. Malphas swallowed the last sob and opened his eyes.

He had always known where he wanted to die and how he wanted to die. And it wasn't in the salt mines of Red Embrace. Malphas's legs vibrated from the strain. He sank his teeth into his lower lip until it bled. A couple more hours and the guards would release him to take him to the salt mines. More pain, more suffering.

He would whimper a little, cringe a little. Tomorrow he would cringe a little more when a guard approached. Little by little they would forget what should never be forgotten about him. And then…Malphas smiled, his lips smeared with blood.

There was still a reason to live.

 

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