Page 195 of Blood of Olympus

I refused to accept that this severing was of the permanent kind… that they might no longer breathe if I could no longer feel them.

I needed distraction. And what better way to combat mental anguish than by physical pain?

Wincing as my head lolled, I reached to palpate what I was sure was a horrific wound — only to meet the jangling resistance of chains.

Chains?

I almost scoffed. Did they not know? They who had shackled me?

Iron could not hold a god. And they were fools to even try.

I tugged on my wrists, testing the strength of the metal, and learned that I could not easily separate them.

Cuffs, then.

I yanked again and found that they were tethered to something else by a second chain connected to the first. Carefully, for I knew not what else lingered in this whiteness with me, I let my hands inch forward. My fingers splayed, and I was grateful not to have brushed against anything furred, scaled, or with several too many legs.

But Charon is the one scared of spiders, I thought dazedly. Not me.

A manic laugh spilled out, ending abruptly in a sharp hiss as my brain protested the noise. It seemed I was only too good at hurting myself — nobody else need try.

My hands slid across a dirt-covered floor, the granules gritty and abrasive under my palms, until they skimmed against the chain holding me captive. Grasping the thick, heavy length, I noted that it, too, was warm like the rest of the room.

While blindness pressed against me like a second skin, torridity covered me like a third.

It was too hot in here. Sweltering and relentless — and dry, like Apollo’s desert. But I knew in my bones that wherever I was, it wasn’t there. That was open, endless, and every once in a while, a breeze passed through.

This felt more like a tomb.

A tomb set alight.

Wrapping both hands around the chain, I gleaned that at least one finger was broken. Maybe, two. But I had to find out as much as I could about my surroundings before whoever chained me came back. My survival would likely depend on it.

The list of those who would dare imprison me was short. And shorter still, was that of those who would prolong the length of my imprisonment, knowing that one slip on their part would see me free — and feeling particularly murderous.

It was only a matter of time before I found out who had moved themselves to the top of my own special list.

I followed the chain to where it was anchored within a stone wall. Then, traced the wall with my fingertips as high as I could reach, each brick as hot as the last. It stretched further than the chain would allow me to follow, and I was left with no real answers as to the size of the room that was likely to be my tomb.

Exhausted and pained, I slid down the stones and curled up on the filthy floor. Thirst gnawed at me, low and constant. Every swallow caught in my throat. Every breath scraped like knives.

My injuries must have been worse than I’d initially suspected, if my strength had fled so quickly and thoroughly. No powers answered my cries, no whispered words soothed my mind.

I was alone.

Completely and utterly alone, for the first time in years.

And so, I had to fight to keep the terror at bay for as long as I could. If I could buy my loved ones — my army — time, then I would. Because whoever held me captive obviously wanted something. I just had to work out what it was.

I catalogued six wounds ranging from inconvenient to troubling: two broken fingers, a dislocated right shoulder, an ankle that barely held my weight — either sprained or broken, I couldn’t tell — a grievous head laceration that felt worryingly spongy beneath the pads of my fingers, and a still-bleeding gut wound that suggested I’d impaled myself on something at some point. I couldn’t remember receiving any of them.

The last thing I could recall was launching skyward with Vel.

Vel, I lamented. I hope you’re okay.

If they’d hurt her, even the Furies wouldn’t be enough to save them.

It was only a matter of time before I healed, escaped, and killed every last fucker on my way out.