Frozen in Time

Iron and Firelight

The first pale light of dawn filtered through the thick canopy, casting weak shadows across my battered body. The cold still gnawed at my skin, but not as sharp as the ache from where Thorn’s dagger had torn through my assassin’s outfit the night before. The fabric hung in ragged strips, exposing raw bruises and cuts that burned beneath the early light.

I shifted uncomfortably, the chains digging into my wrists and ankles, muscles stiff and aching from the long night spent trapped and defenseless. The camp was stirring—gruff voices and the clatter of armor echoing through the trees. A few men glanced my way, eyes filled with a mix of amusement and hunger, but none dared approach too close with daylight and others watching. Thorn was nowhere to be seen yet, and the fat man from last night nursed a grim hangover by the fire, muttering curses under his breath.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps thudded behind me. I tensed, ready for another round of torment. Instead, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the morning haze.

“Tank, bring her to the tent. The master wants her cleaned up before the day begins.”

Tank stepped forward, his massive hands grabbing the iron links binding me to the tree. With a grunt, he forced the chains apart, each link groaning under his strength. The cold metal slid from my wrists and ankles, but the moment my hands were free, a surge of desperate energy hit me.

Without thinking, I dropped to the ground and bolted—boots pounding the dirt, weak and aching but fueled by pure adrenaline and the burning will to survive.

“Get her!” Tank roared, his voice booming through the camp.

I twisted and dodged between trees, branches slapping my torn assassin’s outfit and raw skin. My heart hammered as pain shot through every step. Behind me, Tank’s heavy footfalls crashed through the leaves.

I risked a glance back. Tank was closing fast, relentless.

With no plan but to run, I veered toward a thicker patch of woods, hoping to lose him in the shadows. But the man’s long strides ate the distance between us.

A sudden shove sent me sprawling to the ground. Tank’s huge hand closed around my arm like iron shackles.

“Not so fast, Val,” he growled, hauling me up.

I struggled, clawing at his grip, but his strength was brutal and unyielding.

He dragged me back toward the tent, his grip tight enough to remind me escape was still a dream far out of reach.

Tank’s grip was like a vise, dragging me with no mercy back toward the flickering shadows of the campfires. Every step hammered against my raw skin, the ache of yesterday’s chains pulsing like a cruel reminder of my captivity. The torn edges of my assassin’s outfit clung awkwardly to my body—ripped earlier by Thorn’s dagger—and now exposed more than I wanted, leaving me vulnerable to every leering eye.

The men crowded closer as we approached, their laughter and drunken shouts filling the air with menace. Their gazes burned into me like wildfire, hungry for more than just a show. I bit back a scream, eyes darting, searching for any sign of rescue or distraction, but the camp seemed sealed tight—no friendly faces, no saviors.

Inside the tent, the flickering light of a single lantern cast dancing shadows on the rough canvas walls. The air was heavy with the scent of leather, smoke, and something darker—power and menace wrapped in fine silk.

Tank shoved me toward a sturdy wooden post in the center of the space. The post was rough, cold, and unyielding. I was forced against it, my arms pulled up and chained high above my head, wrists locked painfully to the wood. My legs were forced wide apart, shackled securely to the base of the post. The chains bit into my skin like cold iron snakes, holding me in place, legs spread and helpless.

I struggled against the restraints, twisting my body, but there was no give.

“Back off, Tank,” a new voice ordered.

Val hung at the center of the Prince’s tent, shackled to the rough wooden post. Her wrists were bound high above her head, the coarse ropes biting into her skin with every shudder of exhaustion. Her legs were chained wide apart, iron cuffs cold against her ankles, forcing her into a humiliating spread that left her exposed and vulnerable. The remains of her assassin’s outfit were torn to tatters from Thorn’s blade, barely clinging to her bruised, aching body.

The heavy canvas flap behind her snapped open, and a tall figure stepped inside, casting a long shadow over the flickering firelight. The man’s dark eyes fixed on her instantly, sharp and cold like daggers.

“So, the infamous thief,” he said, voice low, rough with amusement and menace. He circled her slowly, the soft scrape of his boots on the floor the only sound aside from her ragged breathing.

Val’s glare never wavered. Spite radiated from her like heat from a forge. “Thief?” she scoffed, lips cracked and bloody. “If I knew this place was crawling with cowards, I would’ve stolen more than just your pride.”

The man paused, head tilting as though mildly impressed—or irritated. It was hard to tell.

He knelt before her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of leather and something metallic, like the glint of a polished blade. “You will learn to obey,” he whispered, eyes never leaving hers.

“Then start praying,” Val hissed. “Because the only thing I’ve ever learned is how to kill the bastards who try to break me.”

His expression didn’t shift, but the air thickened with tension.

“You will learn to obey,” he said again—this time a command, not a whisper. A decree meant for someone already conquered.

He stood slowly, his gaze dragging across her bound form with methodical detachment. If there had ever been warmth in him, it was long dead—buried beneath layers of performance and cruelty that had become second skin.

“I was told you were dangerous,” he said, pacing again. “Fast, cunning, impossible to catch. But look at you now.”

“Still dangerous,” she rasped, a grin curling her split lip. “You just haven’t realized how badly you’ve f****d up.”

He stopped just inches from her face, the sharp scent of oils clinging to his black tunic. His gloved hand shot up and tilted her chin, not gently, but like he was lifting the lid off something rancid.

“You look pathetic,” he spat. “Not like a warrior. Certainly not like someone worth the bounty on your head. They told me you slit the throats of kings and vanished before their blood hit the floor. But now?” He leaned closer, breath hot with disdain. “Now you’re just a broken thing in chains. A prize. And I always collect what’s mine.”

She let out a dry laugh. “You’d better pray I don’t get free. Because the last man who tried to chain me? I sent his c**k to his widow in a box.”

He shoved her chin away and stepped back, jaw tight. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword—not drawing it, just tapping the pommel with slow, deliberate rhythm.

“I should cut out your tongue,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “But I won’t. I want to hear you scream before this is over.”

“Then you’d better do more than play dress-up in Daddy’s armor,” Val spat. “Because I’ve known real monsters—and you’re just an echo trying to roar.”

He turned from her and stalked to the table in the corner, cluttered with tools too precise to be anything but cruel. He picked up a thin blade, spinning it easily, the firelight catching on its honed edge.

“I find pain does something useful to people like you,” he said, his voice now a low hum. “It strips away the lies. The pride. The assassin mask you wear. It makes you honest.”

She sneered. “You first, then. Let’s carve off that coward’s mask and see what’s hiding underneath. My guess? A frightened little boy trying to impress his father.”

He froze for half a breath—then turned, walking toward her slowly, the blade gleaming in his grip.

“Do you want to know who I am?” he asked, voice dipped in poison. “You’ll know soon enough. But for now, you may call me Master.”

He raised the blade and dragged the flat of it down her exposed stomach, the torn remains of her assassin garb barely clinging to her sides. The cold steel kissed her skin like a lover before the strike—a threat that hadn’t yet bared its teeth.

She leaned forward as far as the chains would let her and hissed through bared teeth. “If I’m calling you anything, it’ll be with your blood gurgling in your throat.”

He stopped in front of her, inches from her face. The sharp scent of fine oils clung to his black tunic. His gloved hand reached up and tilted her chin roughly upward. His grip was not gentle—it was a display. A reminder.

“You look pathetic,” he spat. “Not like a warrior. Certainly not like someone worth the bounty on your head. They told me you slit the throats of kings and vanished before their blood hit the floor. But now?” He leaned in closer, sneering. “Now you’re just a broken thing in chains. A prize. And I always collect what’s mine.”

He released her chin with a shove and stepped back. His hand went to the hilt of his sword—not to draw it, but to tap the pommel rhythmically, a slow, methodical drumbeat of threat.

“I should cut out your tongue,” he mused aloud. “But I won’t. I want to hear you scream before this is over.”

He turned suddenly and paced to a table near the corner of the tent, littered with cloth, parchment, and a tray of sharp instruments—some surgical, some simply cruel. He picked up a thin blade, spun it in his fingers, testing the weight.

“I find pain does something useful to people like you,” he continued. “It strips away the lies. The pride. The assassin mask you wear. It makes you honest.”

He turned back toward her, blade gleaming in the firelight. His boots thudded heavily as he approached, expression unreadable, yet his eyes never left her.

“Do you want to know who I am?” he asked, voice dipped in venom. “You’ll know soon enough. But for now, you may call me master.”

With that, he raised the blade and dragged the flat edge down her stomach—slow, deliberate. Not to cut… not yet. The cold steel was a promise. A threat barely restrained.

“I’m going to remake you,” he whispered. “Not for lust. Not for pleasure. For power. You will kneel to me—because you’ll have no other choice.”

Val's breathing quickened, but she held her glare, fury still glowing behind her eyes.

He smirked. “Still pretending you’re not afraid? Good. It’ll make your eventual surrender all the more satisfying.”

He lifted the blade again.