The cold flagstones drink my blood. I cannot feel my left arm. No. That is a lie. The fingers itch and throb, as if they were still there. The body stubbornly refuses to accept the loss. I look at the empty sleeve. I close my eyes and rest my head against the icy wall. I feel the clench of a fist, though the hand is gone. Muscles tense; tendons tremble. For a split second, I hope that when I open my eyes, time will rewind and everything will return to its rightful place.

  But... I know it is merely a phantom.

  There's not much left of my left leg either. Fire has charred the tissue and staunched the bleeding at the knee. A brutal, primitive method, yet effective. They wanted me stranded here, on the very threshold of death.

  It is the ninth day of torment. By my calculations, I have three mornings left before the executioner completes his work. Reality has shrunk to a metallic taste in the mouth and the stench of mould.

  I hear footsteps.

  "Well, look at him, still breathing. He looks like a half-butchered pig at the shop now."

  The guard's cackle echoes off the damp cell walls. Keys jingle. Bars grind. They are coming in.

  A heavy, hobnailed boot lands on my ribs. Bones crack. I am choked by the wheeze of my own breath. The world vanishes for a moment in a flash of white light. I fall face-first onto the cold stone. Another kick follows.

  "Stop it, Varg. That'll do."

  "What was that?"

  The kicks cease, but the foot does not leave my body. It presses down, checking if I still draw breath.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "Going soft? Just because he poured some draught down your old woman's throat and broke her fever? Is the debt choking you?"

  "Let him be for today."

  "Piss off, then, if you haven't the stomach for real work. I'm going to have a little more fun with him yet."

  I know that second voice. I turn my head. The contours of the cell ripple, losing their sharpness. I cannot see, but I hear the other one backing away. From the corridor comes only a quick, uneven patter. He is fleeing. He knows what Varg can do to a man. And he does not wish to watch.

  The bolt grinds home.

  For a moment, it is so quiet I can hear my own heart. We are alone. The sole of his boot slams into my face. My skull vibrates like a cracked bell. The joint in my jaw jumps with a crunch. The mandible has likely fractured. I taste iron in my throat. I spit out shards of teeth along with the blood. I shall not utter another word, but it matters not. They cannot take my thoughts. That is the one place they cannot reach. They can break the rest, but not that.

  The corner of the executioner's mouth twitches. He need not speak. That tiny gesture tells me everything. This is not duty. This is a feast. He raises his leg and brings it down hard. His foot grinds into my cauterised stump, as if he means to embed it between the stone slabs. The scab splits, releasing fresh gore. His pupils dilate. He feeds on my pain. He smiles wider than a human should.

  I do not look away. I watch, and I remember.

  Unwittingly, he teaches me how to become what I must. He is my master, though he does not know it. He withdraws his leg and moves to the table of tools.

  But I do not scream. Not any more. In this darkness, I see only you.

  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

  I repeat it in my mind, over and over, until the word loses its shape and becomes a ritual prayer that I have been reciting since that night. I did not protect you. The thought devours me. The pain of the body I can endure; the pain in my chest, I cannot. My dearest, forgive me.

  I watched him take everything from you. I counted every tear, choking on my own scream, wounded and powerless. Your gaze was dead with fear as he desecrated you. He had no right to touch you. The monster in gold tore the soul from you to sate his twisted lust.

  Do they think these walls will hold me? That pain and torture will erase the memory of your suffering? That by cutting me up piece by piece, they will break my spirit?

  Oh, how sorely mistaken they are.

  I swear to you, my beloved.

  With every drop of blood, there is less of the man left in me. Every scar on my body is a word of vengeance, etched for ever. I shall not forget. Never. Even if every breath becomes a punishment. Death shall not have me. I will drag my own carcass out of the darkness, if only to get at their throats.

  I will kill him.

  And her, too.

  It doesn't matter that she looks at me with your eyes. Your name will be the last thing they hear. I will be their executioner.

  They will pay.