Dizziness and nausea greeted Rook when he regained consciousness. Slouched against the wall, he raised his chin from where it rested on his chest. The back of his neck burned amidst a relentless throbbing; it still felt like a hot iron was pressing there.

Solid, joined shackles kept his swollen wrists tightly bound. Links trailed from the shackles to a crude tether freshly hammered into the center of the stone floor. His ankles had mercifully been shackled separately, but they too were connected to the tether. It was his same old prison, but his old chains hung empty on the opposite wall.

He licked his dried lips and tasted blood. Though his own, it made his stomach rumble. What he wouldn’t give for more goat, or even that rat. Or the vial...

The desire sent panic flurrying through him.

He twisted his hands slightly. The tips of his aching fingers barely touched when he strained against their metal prison. His wrists were too raw to retry the dislocating trick. His back muscles protested as he leaned forward to inspect his ankles, but his neck stopped short. The burn had distracted him, but he now felt the pressure against his throat from a rough metal collar. Rook followed the attached chain with his eyes to a thick metal hook wedged high in the wall. There would be no maneuvering to stand up or lay down.

“Get no ideas,” a cold female voice spoke.

Rook snapped his head toward the speaker, so used to being alone in this room. The collar rubbed against his burn, and the room swayed in his vision.

A goblin guard leaned against the entrance, while a second humanoid stood more alert. Troll. They looked more human than what western fairytales said, but something angled Rook’s thoughts towards that.

“Thruin will beat you for speaking so much as a word. Go ahead. Try. I missed the earlier performance.”

Rook shut his eyes, waiting for the world to stop being a ship at sea. At least there was the cool wall to lean on. A little more sleep and perhaps his mind would clear for a new plan.

Because all my plans have been brilliant thus far, he thought snidely.

When he felt the hairs on his body stand up, he opened his eyes. Thruin was there, crouched down in front of him; no more than a foot away. Rook jolted, pressing back against the wall.

He’d zoned out! How much time had passed?

“What a mess.” The goblin took in a deep breath. “Smell that? Your fear is a fine wine to me. Let’s see how long you last before you start bleating out exactly how you escaped.”

The goblin’s hand went to rest on the hilt of his stone knife and Rook immediately began stuttering about dislocation. Thruin sneered, but there was a speculative look in his eye.

Hatred bubbled up alongside Rook’s fear. A word grew on the tip of his tongue. It wasn't English. It wasn't any language he knew. Whether it came from the same place as his instinctive recognition of species, or was simply the product of a scrambled brain, he spat it through clenched teeth.

Thruin struck Rook’s throat; a swift jab of his fingers just above the metal collar that sent Rook coughing.

“Speak Serpentine at me again and I’ll cut out your tongue, beast!” he snarled. Watching Rook struggle for breath, a smirk spread across his lips. “But then, I rather enjoy playing with beasties. Observing them. Breaking them. Sometimes swiftly. Sometimes slowly…”

Thruin pressed his thumb against a cut on Rook’s cheek; the type that was small but still smarted. Rook bit back a panicked growl, tears growing in his eyes. The goblin agitated the cut until it bled.

“Little by little, until there’s nothing,” Thruin drawled, drawing the line down Rook’s face in a painted line.

So hungry.

Without thinking, Rook darted out his tongue, catching the side of Thruin's thumb as he licked the blood from his lip.

Thruin blinked in surprise. Then his pupils dilated. He leaned forward eagerly, more intent than he’d ever been.

“If they could see you now,” he whispered reverently. He held his thumb before Rook’s face, but with enough distance he could withdraw from a snap. “Clean it.”

Rook raised his trembling hands, but his attention remained on Thruin's other hand resting above the knife.

“No. Like the animal you are, serpent.”

Slowly, Rook opened his mouth just wide enough for his tongue. He leaned forward and dabbed the green, callused skin before wincing back.

Thruin chuckled. He lowered his hand and pulled a vial from his pouch. Rook’s gaze glued itself to the dark liquid inside.

“Corruption is too busy for your second session. This is to hold you over for a few days. Something tells me, you really, really want it.”

Rook clenched his mouth closed, even as saliva rose in droves.

Thruin undid the stopper.

A frustrated sob managed to squeak its way through Rook’s lips. A mistake. Thruin speedily pressed the vial right against the opening, leaking a drip in.

The taste was just right!

Rook parted his lips more, not caring it was Thruin administering it. He barely caught himself from swallowing. 

“Sated?” Thruin smugly withdrew the vial slowly. He leaned right up by Rook’s ear. Rook could smell him through the concoction. “Until next time… Rook,” he whispered, his voice seductively venomous.

Rook closed his eyes. He didn’t dare breathe until Thruin was long gone.

It took all his resolve not to swallow.

----

The guards only left once, when a masked figure came to kick Rook repeatedly, snarling about revenge for Rook biting his brother. Rook took that as an opportunity to expel the contents that hadn’t leaked down his throat all over the figure. The goblin thought it was Rook’s own blood—or perhaps vomit—and seemed more satisfied than irritated as he stormed away.

Rook clutched his bruised ribs and restrained a painful cough. His nose was bleeding and he licked the blood that reached his lips. 

He tilted his head down, hoping to ease the irritation his burn was giving him, but only succeeded in rubbing the collar against his injury. His hands pulled the chain taut to scratch around the burn for the twentieth time, the metal edges of the shackles breaking skin. The tips of his fingers could barely reach under the top of the collar. 

His hapless frustration was barely held at bay by the wisp of hope that Dalia had played her cards better than him. Perhaps she’d found a way out. Perhaps she’d find him. Perhaps she’d find help. Anything would be better than this.

A bitter laugh escaped him and his guards jumped at the sound.

“Scared the shit out of me,” the troll exclaimed. He nudged the goblin. “He can still make a noise. You owe me five coppers.”

The goblin begrudgingly pulled small, flat coins from her belt and handed them over to the troll. She glared at Rook. “Don’t touch your collar, serpent.”

“Or?” Rook croaked. It hurt to talk.

A thin line of blood ran down his inner arm as he pulled harder. His eyes followed it before he realized they had.

“Or?” the goblin echoed, gobsmacked.

“Or, you’ll do what, goblin?”

The goblin’s lips curled.

“Wait.” The troll’s outstretched arm stopped her from approaching Rook. He watched Rook lick the line of blood.

“We can rough him for being cheeky,” the goblin insisted. “Thruin said—”

“If he looks any worse, Corruption will skin us alive. Besides, I’ve seen this before.”

“Seen what?”

“The look of someone descending into madness.”

The troll spoke some sort of protective prayer in his tongue, then they both stepped a foot back, as if Rook were contagious.

Madness? Is that what this despair is? Might it have started with the voice?

A sharp, single note whistled from down the hall.

The guards’ heads swiveled in the direction, reminding him of owls. The troll’s eyes narrowed, and the two exited together, their echoing footsteps stopping where the minotaur used to stand guard. The goblin made a scoffing-like noise. Rook wasn't sure how else to describe it, but he imagined some poor soul had taken a wrong turn.

A prolonged silence followed. Only the slightest ruffling of fabric confirmed people were still there.

Then, a tall woman—taller than Rook—with white hair cautiously poked her head into his prison. Her nose flared as she took in a deep breath.

She looked to be in her early twenties, her face and neck covered in freckles. Her tunic, which mimicked the rocky tunnel colours, did little to hide her athletic frame. Her bare feet made little noise as she finally stepped into the room. They were dirty, nearly black in places, as though she'd prowled through soot.

Another unhappy visitor?

Rook dragged his legs in closer. The metal edges ground into his ankles as the shackles clinked. Her eyes darted to him and he froze mid-retreat.