Page 67 of Sword & Sacrifice

Whipped.

Grab the axe.

Throw it—

Again and again and a-fucking-gain. It would drive anyone mad. Valerian could only hold on to reason, to the knowledge that he’d experienced this before, for a few seconds after the scene restarted. For the first few rounds, he only knew something was wrong. After the fifth time he woke up with a stranger’s blood staining his hands, he remembered who he was. More importantly, who he was not.

He was no longer the young mage who had only stopped running for his life once he was caught. That man was decades behind him.

He was Valerian Sommers, ex-mercenary, shopkeeper, and mage adviser to the King of Bellacosta.

Valerian salvaged each scrap from the mess of his own mind, holding onto them even as his body acted out the darkest memories of his life. The awareness faded quickly, leaving him at the mercy of the past, but if he could find a way to hold onto himself, he could change what happened.

He could break out.

Wake up.

One of Valerian’s hands strained and cramped as he resisted the urge to follow the same motions as always. Instead of shoving the dead man off him, he held the man there, his other hand clasped firmly around the dagger. No matter how many times he reenacted these memories, he would never learn who the man was. No new information would ever be available to him. He didn’t even bother to look at the stranger’s face this time. All his attention was locked on the dagger in his hand.

Pull it from him. Wipe it clean. Stash it in your boot. Leave the rest of the shit behind, you’ll never have a chance to use it anyway.

His hand trembled as he tried to force his body off script. Slowly, the dagger slid out, slick with blood. The man’s body slumped onto the bed beside him.

Valerian reached for the dead man’s pockets but froze. Searching for information on his attacker would only waste time. He straightened and walked toward the door, every step like swimming against a strong current.

The first time he’d lived through this moment, he’d still been somewhat inexperienced. He hadn’t checked for any accomplices, and he hadn’t searched his surroundings. He’d even left out the front door rather than choosing a back exit or climbing out a window. Valerian had spent too long as the hunter, so when he finally became the hunted, he made the same stupid mistakes as all the other prey.

This time, he forced his reluctant body toward the back exit. The boarding house blurred around him, difficult to focus on. Since he’d only lived there for a few months, his mind struggled to fill in the details.

Valerian grabbed the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open, gritting his teeth from the effort. The stars outside invited a dreamer’s gaze, but he refused to look at them, focusing on his surroundings instead.

Nothing lurked in the shadows.

When I find my way out of here, I’m burning this damn tree to the ground.

He stepped forward, focusing on stepping out of the memory and into the forest.

The scene went black.

Valerian opened his eyes to see Maksim looming over him again.

“Welcome home, Valerian.”

A hundred curses sped through Valerian’s mind. He didn’t pay attention to a word Maksim said—he’d heard it too many times already. The only thing Valerian had accomplished with his latest escape attempt was that he now had to suffer through every indignant lash as his present self.

The abuse paused. Maksim lifted Valerian’s chin with the whip’s handle and gazed down at him with ice blue eyes. “You have a steel will, forged in blood and misery,” he said with the echo of Alistair’s voice. “But I will break you, no matter how long it takes.”

He dropped Valerian’s head and walked behind him. The monologue didn’t continue. Maksim didn’t grab the axe. The whip struck Valerian’s back again.

Valerian didn’t wake up.

The scene didn’t restart.

It remained suspended in that point of time, with Valerian still bound to the posts, taking lash after lash, until he lost count.

Chapter Thirty

Silas stared at the bloated, rotted corpse with the strangest sense of quiet. Like he was in a nightmare he’d just realized was a dream.