He woke on a bed in a room lit with dim candlelight. The sheets were soft and luxurious, unlike the straw poking through the cot he’d slept on just the night before. The bedframe was draped in black gauze. His limbs were still bound. He was still naked.
Fight.
This can't happen again.
That little voice was louder in the mornings. His back ached when he shifted and pulled at his bandaged wounds. The thin man usually changed the bandages more frequently. Frances should arrive soon to pour that bitter tonic down his throat. The taste wasn't so bad. The voice was much quieter after.
Don't let her win!
Fight!
Castien shook his head, growling. Fine. Fight what? Why?
She's alive.
As if that answered anything. Mistress was the only ‘she’ who mattered. Of course, Mistress was alive. And he'd never fight her.
The click of heels on marble was discordant music to his ears. The insidious voice was silent around his Mistress.
Sharp claws scraped the muscles of his chest. The bed dipped where she settled to gaze down at him. He knew better than to meet her eyes.
Her claws scratched a trail down to his abs. "You’re a beautiful weapon, aren't you? How are you feeling?"
“Better, Mistress,” he murmured. He wanted to ask if Frances would come soon. He was parched.
Her light scratch traced his hips. “Do you love me, toy?”
He shivered. The room was cold.
“Yes, Mistress. I love you and only you. I belong to you.”
She had asked this before. He hadn't known what to answer. For the next three hours, she had whipped the answer into his back.
“Highness.”
He flinched. Standing beside his Mistress was the thin man. Had Frances been there this entire time? His thoughts dragged through the fog. Why couldn’t he think?
She took a vial from Frances and tipped it towards his lips. The inexplicable urge to spit it out constricted his throat. He couldn’t breathe, much less swallow. Above him, Mistress’ brow began to furrow. He pretended to swallow. The bitter liquid burned his mouth. The vial clattered onto a tray.
Claws returned to his skin. His thighs, this time, outlining his muscles. “He looks well. I’m glad you haven’t failed me, Frances.”
“Thank you, highness. He’s a weapon, just as you said. A sword. Fear and pain softened his mind. We only need to shape it. He is almost ready.”
The Queen’s head lifted. “Almost? He can fight, and he obeys. What is the delay?”
Frances cleared his throat. “His process is more delicate than the others. It has only been a week or two, highness. Allow me another two weeks, I beg you. He will be everything you desire.”
While their attentions were diverted, Castien let his head drift to the side. Liquid dribbled into his pillow. A shaky breath entered his lungs. The little voice seemed satisfied. Perhaps a bit of disobedience was worth the peace in his mind. He was healed, his body strong. Perhaps he didn’t need the tonic any longer.
“What are you doing?”
Claws gripped his chin. A faint flicker of resistance feathered through the muscles of his neck. He blinked. Mistress turned his head.
Frances hissed. “I was afraid of this. It’s only a minor delay, I swear. I’ll brew another batch right away.”
Pain flared along his jaws and cheeks. Mistress was angry.
The thin man stepped back from the bed. “Please, highness, remember–”
