Page 5 of Apprentice to the Villain

Fatigue forced his eyes to close for a moment. What difference did it make? There was no way in the deadlands he’d be able to break out of here—not with his magic out of commission. This wasn’t his cell in the king’s summer home: it was a chamber meant specifically for his imprisonment, his torture.

The irony was not lost on him.

Hopelessness was a horrid feeling, not to mention a useless one. But he felt hope leech away as he dropped to his knees for the second time that day.

He groaned, missing indifference, missing smothering his feelings like banking a fire. It was preferable to the burning eating at his insides. But he’d been powerless against indifference with Sage. He knew that now, just as he knew—prickling awareness raised the hairs on his neck—he knew he wasn’t alone in this room.

“You look just terrible, my boy.”

Rage pulsed behind his aching eyes, his vision futilely straining to see Benedict before him. The king had devices for hunting in the dark, had used them during Trystan’s first stay in order to torment him. In another life, he might have admired the showmanship, but in this one, he merely wanted to kick the king’s teeth in.

Pushing himself to stand on shaking legs, he struggled to speak evenly. “Ah, well, I’m sure that’s a comfort to you, Benedict. Like looking in a mirror.”

Benedict chuckled. “Now, now. No need for hostilities. I’ve merely come to talk to you.”

“The torture’s starting already?”

Trystan knew the blow was coming, waited to gauge its direction. The fist landed in his gut so hard, the air knocked from his lungs and his knees gave out. Did the guard have steelknuckles on? By the gods, that hurt.

Benedict chuckled again. A sharp, disorienting pain stabbed at Trystan’s middle as he inhaled. It was no matter; he knew pain, knew agony deeper than the waves of the Lilac Sea. He’d learned long ago to lean in to the hurt instead of away from it.

Rough hands closed a tight metal cuff around each of his wrists, rubbing the skin there raw as he railed against the chains, pulling them taut against the wall. The feeling of immobility was worse, somehow, than the pain had been.

The king’s voice was mocking. “How disappointing. I’d hoped for a civil conversation.”

“I’ve never been very good at social niceties.” The splintering pain was throbbing in his side now. Wonderful. He’d bruised a rib.

The king hummed. “Then I’ll get to the point. I need the mated guvres—promptly.”

It was Trystan’s turn to laugh. “And why in the deadlands would I give you anything?”

“Shall I shed some light on the issue?” A sound rustled, and then the room was flooded with dim torchlight. Tears burned in Trystan’s sensitive eyes, and he blinked harshly. “There. Now you can see me more clearly.”

“The horror. Put it out.”

Another blow to the gut, but he was able to see the fist this time and brace for it.Small miracles.

He could see Benedict now, too, in the light of the torch he was holding: hair perfectly groomed, in well-tailored clothing, making Trystan’s now visibly torn shirt look like rags. “I’m giving you the opportunity to redeem yourself, Villain. The guvres are essential to the future of this kingdom and all its people. This is your final opportunity to redeem all the harm you’ve wrought.”

Trystan sneered. “And what about the harm you’ve wrought?”He disdainfully scanned Benedict from head to toe, knowing the ire it would invoke. “I suppose you think your crimes are excusable, so long as you commit them in the dark.”

The king swallowed, his shoulders going tense, as if he was physically restraining himself from striking out. “You don’t know what is at stake, you damned fool.”

There was a precipice that Benedict was teetering on, and Trystan could sense the bubble of truth building behind Benedict’s snide lips. Pride would be the king’s downfall—he knew it like the moon knew the stars and the grass knew the sun. All Trystan had to do was press at the right wound.

“All your failures finally catching up to you, Benedict?” Trystan smiled.

A vein bulged in Benedict’s forehead as he moved closer, just out of reach. “I haven’t failed. I’ve been failed, first by you, then by the female guvre.” Benedict paused, eyes alight in dangerous satisfaction. “Fortunately for me, mistakes can be rectified. Beginning with Evie Sage’s poor, deluded mother.”

It was a call to war, mentioning her name. A quick flash of white-hot anger seared across his skin, distracting him from the words, from the truth Benedict shouldn’t have revealed.

What did the king want with Sage’s mother?

Trystan tried his hardest to keep his face blank, but he’d flinched in time with her name. Benedict smirked at the reaction, likely knowing now what that name did to him, after how he’d begged for her. How odious, to have your failings displayed outright; how wickedly painful.

Trystan steeled himself against it, raising his shoulders back an inch, playing the game. “Keeping a newborn guvre in captivity could hardly keep you in Fate’s good favor, Benedict. You kept the female trapped for nearly a decade—that couldn’t have been without consequence.”

The king smiled. “Who said it wasn’t?”