The scream was a currency. I was its miser.
It echoed off the damp, stone walls of the holding cell, a raw, ragged sound that spoke of breaking points and shattered pride. I didn't move, didn't flinch. I just watched the nobleman Lord Something-or Other, his title was as irrelevant as his life sob into the filthy straw.
Please, he gasped, spittle and blood stringing from his split lip. "My family… they'll pay whatever you ask."
"They already have," I said, my voice flat, a stone dropped into a well. It was always the same. They bargained, they begged, they broke. The Iron Citadel's training was thorough. "The price was your silence. You chose to speak to the rebellion. Now you'll scream for me."
My gloved fingers flexed. I didn't need the knives on the table; they were for show, for the psychological unraveling. My true weapon was coiled deep inside me, a cold, slithering thing of shadow and pain. The magic they had burned into my bones.
A faint, shimmering thread of violet light visible only to my eyes connected my chest to his. *Anima-Vinum*. Life-Wine. The cursed gift that made me the Citadel's most valuable Sparrow. I didn't just inflict pain. I *fed* on it. His agony was a vintage, and I was the connoisseur, draining his terror to fuel the magic that bound me.
I gave the thread a gentle, mental pull.
His back arched off the rough wooden chair, a strangled gurgle replacing his words. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites. The sweet, electric tang of his suffering washed through me, a jolt of power that was at once addicting and revolting. It warmed the perpetual chill in my veins.
This was my gilded cage. Not the cell, but the power itself. A privilege, my master called it. A honour. To me, it was the chain that yanked me from one bloody room to the next.
The door behind me creaked open, cutting off the lord's whimpering. I didn't need to turn. I knew the cadence of those boots on the flagstones. Silas.
"Elara." His voice was like oiled silk, smooth and suffocating. "Is our guest ready to divulge the location of the Kingslayer's camp?"
"He's considering his options," I replied, not taking my eyes off the nobleman, who was now shivering uncontrollably.
Silas came to stand beside me, a study in elegant cruelty. He wore fine black robes, his silver hair perfectly coiffed. He smelled of citrus and sandalwood, a stark contrast to the coppery stench of fear and old urine. He was the hand of the Emperor, my master, and my warden.
"The Emperor grows impatient. The Kingslayer's raids are becoming… audacious." He placed a familiar, heavy hand on my shoulder. The one that bore the master-sigil, a twisted knot of iron that could, with a thought, make my own magic turn inward on itself in excruciating punishment. A reminder of who held the leash. "Finish this. Extract the location and then… tidy up."
*Tidy up*. A euphemism that curdled my stomach.
He left, and the door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the ruin of a man. The nobleman met my gaze, and in his tear-filled eyes, I saw it: not just fear, but a flicker of defiance. A memory. Of a man who once believed in something.
*"They'll use you until you're hollow,"* a ghost of a voice whispered in my mind, a voice from a life before the Citadel. My mother's voice. *"And then they'll throw the empty shell away."*
A dangerous, traitorous thought bloomed. What if I didn't? What if, just once, I chose the prey over the master?
The thought was so alien it felt like a physical shock. It was immediately followed by a phantom ache in my bones, my body remembering the price of disobedience.
But then I looked at the lord, truly looked. He was a fool, yes. But he had fought for something. He had believed in the Kingslayer's cause enough to risk this. What did I have? A full belly of other people's pain and a master who saw me as a useful blade.
The rebellion's words, scrawled on walls and whispered in taverns, slithered into my mind: *"Break your chains."*
It was madness. Suicide.
I leaned close, my lips nearly brushing his ear. My voice dropped to a whisper, a secret for just the two of us. "Listen to me. When I create the diversion, you run. Don't look back. Head for the sewers, grate number seven. It's unguarded for three minutes at the shift change. Do you understand?"
His eyes widened, confusion and a desperate, wild hope warring in their depths. He gave a barely perceptible nod.
This was it. The point of no return.
I stood, drawing a knife from the table. Not for him. For the two guards outside the door. I took a deep breath, pushing down the fear that threatened to choke me, and reached for the Anima-Vinum. But this time, I didn't pull it from him.
I pushed.
I pushed a wave of pure, unadulterated *force* through the connection. Not pain. Raw, kinetic energy.
The cell door didn't just blow open; it exploded off its hinges in a shower of splintered wood and twisted iron, slamming into the opposite wall with a deafening crash. Alarms blared to life somewhere above, their shriek echoing down the stone corridors.
"GO!" I screamed at the nobleman.
He stumbled to his feet, scrambling over the wreckage and into the chaos of the hallway beyond. Shouts erupted. The clash of steel.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I had done it. I had broken the script.
I didn't wait. I moved, a ghost in the pandemonium I'd created. Guards ran past me, toward the escaping prisoner. Perfect. I slipped down a side corridor, my path clear. The escape route was mapped in my mind, a plan I'd never dared to hope I'd use.
I was almost to the service stairwell, freedom a tangible scent on the cold air, when *it* hit.
A searing, white-hot pain lanced through my skull, dropping me to my knees. It felt like my bones were melting, my blood turning to fire. The master-sigil. Silas knew. He'd felt my betrayal through the bond.
Through the haze of agony, I saw his polished boots stop before me.
"Oh, Elara," Silas sighed, his voice dripping with a profound, theatrical disappointment. "I had such hopes for you. To think you'd throw it all away for a fleeting moment of sentiment."
He crouched down, gripping my chin, forcing my tear-filled eyes to meet his. The pain intensified, and a broken sob escaped my lips.
"You forget, little Sparrow," he whispered, his breath warm against my face. "A weapon that turns on its master is no longer a weapon. It's scrap metal."
He stood, releasing me. "Take her to the transport. The Kingslayer has been capturing our agents in the Feldspar Marches. It seems he has a taste for Citadel toys." A cruel smile touched his lips. "Let's give him a broken one. Let's see how long his famous mercy lasts when he has a rabid, useless Sparrow dumped on his doorstep. It will be a far more potent message than any corpse."
Rough hands grabbed me. The world swam, the pain a constant, screaming presence. As they dragged me away, the last thing I saw was Silas's smile.
And the chilling realization: my first taste of freedom hadn't been escape.
It had been a delivery.