One day, she brought a different man, a soldier in armor. The flat of his sword smacked Castien’s still-healing wounds,reopening them. Then the soldier handed Castien the bloodied weapon.
Mistress commanded. He obeyed. His muscles recalled what his mind only vaguely remembered. Training.
Every hesitant, awkward swing brought punishment. Whether from Mistress or the soldier, there was always pain. Pain was a constant. He remembered it. He remembered the terrible pleasure of it. Fear was the driving force of his resolve to improve. Warmed muscles gave him more purpose than lying abed. He threw himself into training.
When darkness denied him relief, he embraced the mindless rhythm of combat.
—
A whip cracked across his back.
Mistress was in a foul mood. He breathed deeply as the leather bit his skin. In a detached manner, he calculated that his body could take twenty more strikes. Perhaps thirty. Training and sustenance had made him stronger.
"The bitch is alive."
His breath caught. An inexplicable ache in his chest eased just slightly.
Another strike, harder. The pain from the whip felt distant. At this rate, he could take twenty strikes, no more.
"You failed me, toy."
Three more in quick succession. A hiss escaped him. He had failed, it was true.
“Silence! Did you lie to me? No, don't answer. I won't believe a word you say.”
He hadn't lied. He'd done everything he'd been told to do. A muffled groan rasped from his constricted throat.
"I said, silence! You are such a disappointment."
The whipping stopped. Why had she stopped? He should be punished thoroughly for his incompetence.
Her footfalls faded behind him, then returned. "Stay very still, toy."
He braced.
A different whip whistled through the air. The sound of it was familiar. Terror sparked from his hazy memories, and a moment later, cold lines sliced open his skin. Blades. Sharp and sudden, he only felt the pressure and tugging at first. Then violent pain erupted in his muscles. The whip came down again. Five strikes – he could perhaps take five now. Four. He held in a scream. Three. Mistress commanded him to be silent. Two. If he fainted, would she be angry? One. The edges of his vision darkened, and he forced himself to remain conscious.
He deserved the pain. Every strike. Even that small voice inside him agreed.
The whipping stopped. He didn’t faint. Pity.
That night, he dreamed he was in a tiny room enclosed by solid stone. He could hear a whisper through the walls if he was very still.
Castien. Castien. Castien…
The voice was familiar in some forgotten way. His heart ached, but he didn’t want the voice to leave. It was soothing, relaxing.
Until it disappeared.
He waited, straining to hear it again. Nothing.
He screamed and pounded the walls until he bled, his blood drying and becoming rose petals as they peeled off. Snatching one from the air, it disintegrated in his fingers. He sobbed and smashed his hands into the stone again, blood streaming to the ground.
A face formed on the wall, outlined by the streams of red. A beautiful, terrifying, feminine face with glowing emerald eyes. Her lips moved, and he heard that whisper again.
Castien.
Then his blood dried, and the face fell apart in a cascade of rose petals.
