Episode Eighteen
1267 Words
Part 29: The Breaking of a Brute
I let six hours pass.
I let the Healer visit Torg twice. I let the milk of the poppy work its magic, dulling the fire in his mutilated legs, pulling him from the red haze of agony into a softer, grayer world of manageable pain. I let him sleep. I let him wake to the smell of a hot, rich, meat-and-barley stew, which Kaelen, her face a mask of thunderous disgust, had ordered a guard to deliver.
I watched from the shadows of the alcove down the hall as the brute, confused and wary, devoured the food like a starving animal, his first real meal in days. I let him drink his fill of clean water. I let him feel the warmth of the fire in his secure, comfortable room in the Healer's tower.
I let him sit there, in his new, comfortable cage, and think. I let him wonder why his enemy was treating him with more care than his own Alpha had.
Only when the sun was low, and the room was filled with the warm, sleepy glow of the hearth, did I go to him.
I went alone. I wore the Luna's green wool, my hair unbound. I carried no weapons. The two guards at his door, per Draven's new orders, simply nodded and opened the door for me, their expressions carefully neutral.
The room was warm and quiet. Torg was propped up on a bed with actual pillows, his massive, tree-trunk legs bound and resting on a bolster. The empty stew bowl was on the floor. His eyes, when they found me, were no longer wild with pain or rage. They were wide, groggy from the draft, and filled with a deep, profound, and animalistic confusion.
He flinched, his massive shoulders tensing, his hands gripping the sheets. He was a broken predator, and the one who had broken him had just walked into his den.
I didn't speak. I walked slowly to the fire, picked up the empty water pitcher, and poured him a fresh cup from a ewer left by the Healer. I placed it on the small table by his bed, well within his reach.
His eyes followed the cup, then flew back to my face.
"You... you..." he rumbled, his voice a thick, unused gravel. He was struggling to form the words. "You... cut me."
"Yes," I said, my voice quiet, calm. I didn't sit. I stood near the foot of his bed, a non-threatening presence. "You were trying to kill me. That was a fight."
He stared, his simple, brutish mind trying to process this.
"This," I continued, gesturing to the room, the food, the cup of water, "is law. My Alpha's law. He provides for his pack."
Torg's brow furrowed. "I... am not pack."
"No," I agreed. "You are not. You are a prisoner. But the Alpha of Shadowcleft does not let even his enemies rot in a cold cell without cause. He is not a tyrant, Torg. He is a leader. And he respects strength. He's... disappointed. He sees you, a great warrior, and he wonders why you would throw your life away for a man like Silas."
The brute's face darkened at the name. "Silas... is my Alpha."
"Is he?" I asked, my voice soft. I walked to the window, looking out at the darkening courtyard. "He's in the high cells, Torg. It's very cold up there. The wind is... cruel. He has no fire. He has no food. He has no water."
I turned back to look at him. His eyes were fixed on me, hanging on every word.
"And in all the hours he's been there," I said, "he has not asked for you once. He has not asked if you are in pain. He has not asked if you are alive."
Torg's massive hands clenched the blankets. A low, wounded sound came from his chest.
"He doesn't care about you, Torg," I said, my voice flat, pitiless. "I crippled you. And he left you. He left you to crawl back to our stronghold. He left you to bleed. He left you to die."
"No," he growled, but it was weak. It was a desperate, hollow sound.
"He only talks about his 'True King'," I pressed, taking a step closer. "He doesn't talk about his pack. He doesn't talk about his men. He doesn't talk about you. You were just a tool to him, Torg. A club. And when you broke, he threw you away."
Torg's face, a landscape of broad, simple features, crumpled. It was a terrible, slow-motion collapse. His loyalty, the one simple, pure thing in his brutish heart, was shattering.
"He... he promised," Torg whispered, the words a raw, broken plea. "He promised... we'd all be... kings. He promised... no more hiding. No more starving. He promised... a home."
Bingo.
I didn't smile. I let the mask of the Luna soften, just a fraction. I let a quiet, cold pity enter my voice.
"He lied," I said softly. "He wasn't building you a home, Torg. He was building a road for his King. He was using your strength, your loyalty... just to clear a path. And when the real army came, what do you think he would have done with a broken brute like you? He would have left you for the crows."
A single, huge, salty tear rolled down Torg's cheek, disappearing into his matted beard. He was not a fanatic. He was a child, a broken, loyal dog who had just realized his master was cruel.
I had him.
I walked to the door. "The Healer will bring you more for your pain. Rest. You are warm here. You are fed. You are safe."
I paused, my hand on the latch. "Think about what a real Alpha is, Torg. Think about who gave you a fire, and who left you in the cold."
I left. I didn't run. I walked, my back straight, through the quiet halls of the keep, back to the lodge.
Draven was waiting, just as I knew he would be. He was not in the council room. He was in the lodge, by the fire, a flagon of wine and two cups on the table. He was waiting for his Queen.
He stood as I entered, his golden eyes searching my face, not with anxiety, but with a deep, patient confidence.
I didn't need to speak. I walked to him, took the cup he offered, and drank, the wine a sharp, welcome warmth in my throat.
"He's ours," I said, my voice steady.
Draven’s gaze didn't waver. "When will he talk?"
"He already has," I said. I set the cup down, my mind cold and clear. "Silas promised them they'd all be kings. He promised them a home. Torg... he's just a lost pup who followed the first Alpha that offered him a scrap of hope. He's not just broken, Draven. He's furious. He's ready to hate Silas. All we have to do is give him permission."
A slow, dangerous, and incredibly proud smile spread across Draven's face. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the skin just behind my ear. He pulled me close.
"My viper," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive rumble. "You didn't just break a prisoner, Lyra. You just recruited our first spy."
He leaned in, his forehead pressing against mine. "The 'True King' thinks he's sending an army," he whispered, "But we... we've just found a way to tear it apart from the inside."
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