Page 69 of A Kingdom of Wild and Power
She hurried after him, gathering the skirts of the gown in clumsy hands. She had not worn a dress since becoming valkyrian, and even then, never anything like this. It felt wrong—restrictive, heavy, like a costume stitched for someone else’s life.
They walked in silence, Ylva keeping a cautious distance behind him. The keep unfolded around them, far larger than she had imagined. Witches and warlocks moved through itscorridors with purpose, their murmured conversations echoing against stone. Most doors were shut tight, their secrets sealed away from her.
The structure was square, rising at least four levels high. Its interior yawned open at the centre, allowing every floor to look down into the courtyard below. As they descended, a sound reached her, faint at first, then unmistakable.
Screams.
Ylva faltered, her steps slowing as the noise crawled beneath her skin.
They reached the ground level, passed through a narrow hallway, and then stepped out into the courtyard.
Ylva stopped short.
The space was not large, but it was crowded, packed with witches and warlocks standing in loose rings around their work. More than a dozen prisoners lay scattered across the stone, suspended, chained, or collapsed in heaps. Some were barely conscious. Others were very clearly dying.
Their bodies bore the marks of prolonged suffering—wounds old and new, flesh broken down by pain and neglect.
Decay hung thick in the air.
And Ylva understood, with a sickening certainty, that this was not a place meant for mercy.
Ylva noticed a heap of bodies discarded to one side of the courtyard, left to rot beneath the merciless sun of the Kingdom of Fire. The heat had swollen them, split them open. The stench was unbearable. Thick and sweet. She gagged, clapping a hand over her nose, forcing the bile back down her throat.
Then her attention snapped towards the screams.
They rose above the others, raw and tearing, shredding the air. On the warm stone floor lay a drakonian woman, naked, her body pinned and powerless. A warlock knelt over her,committing an act so vile Ylva’s mind recoiled even as her heart ignited with fury.
She did not think.
She surged forward, the world narrowing to red and white and the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears.
She barely made it three steps.
Pain seized her veins as blood magic wrapped around her like iron. Her body locked mid-stride, frozen, breath stolen from her lungs. She strained, fought, screamed silently but nothing moved. Not a finger. Not a breath.
Hagan stepped into her line of sight, calm as a man admiring a painting. He tilted his head, studying her as one might study an interesting flaw.
‘And what, precisely, do you think you are doing?’ he asked, his voice smooth with menace.
‘I will kill you if you do not let me go,’ Ylva hissed, every word shaking with fury. Her gaze snapped back to the scene behind him, to the warlock forcing himself upon the drakonian woman, to the way her body arched in helpless agony. ‘He’s raping her!’
‘So?’
The word landed like a blade.
Ylva’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Let me go. Now!’
Hagan’s stare darkened, sharpening into something cruel. ‘Do you wish to be next?’
‘I’m going to kill you!’ Ylva screamed, thrashing against the invisible grip that held her fast. She fought with everything she had, muscles burning, bones aching, but the blood magic did not yield.
Hagan stepped closer. His hand closed around her jaw, immense and unyielding, forcing her face towards the horror unfolding on the stone.
‘Watch,’ he commanded, his fingers tightening until pain flared white behind her eyes. ‘You are going to watch all of it. Every rape. Every scream. Every act of torture. Every death.’
Tears spilt freely down Ylva’s cheeks as her body shook, trapped between rage and helplessness. Her breath came in broken gasps, her throat raw as she forced the words out.
‘Why?’ she begged hoarsely. ‘Why are you doing this?’
