The only sound is the constant drip of freezing water, leaking into the bucket on the floor. Over the past few hours, it has gotten full, long after the servants came in and emptied it—using that for water supply instead of the fresh water supplied to the rest of the castle. The prisoners deserve no better than the rusted flavor.

No one is speaking, we haven't since the rebel sat down in the chair, his hands tied behind his back. Over recent days, we've beat him. His face is covered in an array of blues and purples, black frames one of his eyes and the skin on his lips are dry, cracked, and split. Each breath he takes is ragged, he hasn't eaten so every second he's alive is another he shouldn't be here.

Every day he's come into this room and sat in the chair for questioning. He's a rebel, and in an attempt to sneak in, got himself captured. That happened to be the one night the guards were paying attention; they caught him before he made it to the gates. Upon being caught, he killed two guards and disabled another. He is still alive for that reason alone.

The king has put his strongest men on watch, especially at the gates leading into the capital. To fight against them, and be so skilled that he nearly won, means this rebel carries exactly what we need. Unparalleled to the rest of the prisoners who've spent years down here, slowly withering away. They won't be of use, but men like him, rebels with the longing to fight, will be put to the test.

I recognize his face from somewhere, we've seen each other in passing but nothing more. I get the sense he hated me at one point. He didn't want me there, yet I can't seem to place our location. Every day, my memories continue to fade. Yesterday, I might've remembered how we met, his name, our association with each other. Today, that is not the case.

I suppose it's not important, we won't be speaking much once he gives us the necessary information. All it takes is a few simple truths and he'll be home free, set loose by the king to experience happiness in his wildest dreams.

"This can be over," I tell him. He sits alone in the middle of the room, his head hung low.

I rest my back against the wall next to the door, one ankle crossed over the other and my arms, tight against my chest. I've been standing like this for next to an hour as I wait for his previous beating to settle into his bones. My knuckles still ache from contacting his jaw, repeatedly.

Blood mixed with spit dribbles from his lip and soaks into the already bloody tunic he wears. It's been the same since he arrived, none of the prisoners receive a change of clothes—their lives aren't valuable enough. They've done things to put themselves in this position, things I won't help, so this man deserves everything he is getting.

"He's not going to talk," Binx acknowledges from the other corner of the room. He's merely a shadow, but upon speaking, steps out into the light of the flaming torch and hovers over the prisoner.

His hand covered in leather, Binx grips the man's scalp and tugs back, forcing him to look up. The rebel releases a startled gasp and a moan, already wincing in preparation for another blow to the face. With the light illuminated across his skin, it's clear how much damage I have done. There's no recognition in his eyes, he's as hollow as he appears, and the blood running down his neck is as good a death sentence as any. This rebel won't hold out much longer.

"Should we summon the king?" I ask. "He'll know what to do."

Binx drops the fistful of hair and the man's head hangs once more. Like a tired dog, his movements are slow and weakened. His stomach grumbles, twisting itself into knots, as food has been scarce. The king's orders were not to feed him until he fesses to the truth and information about the rebels. He's not speaking, likely because the leader of the rebels told him not to when he sent him off on a mission to be a spy. He'll become a soldier instead.

"You have one more chance," Binx warns him. There's nothing kind in his solid voice. "Speak or you receive another blow."

The rebel looks up, an act I didn't think was possible, and with all the strength he has left, sends that spit and blood directly into Binx's face. I raise my brows as Binx brings up a hand, slowly wiping the bodily fluids off his face with one painfully wet smear. This is the end, I can tell by the rage in his eyes.

"Fine, you've made your choice." Binx steps back and allows me to take his spot.

There is no need for a proper order as I draw back my fist, clenching my sore knuckles tight, and deliver a blow to his cheek. His head snaps to the side at the same time my knuckles scream, but I deliver another, just for showing the lack of loyalty towards a castle member.

Blood spills from his teeth and he spits that onto the ground before heaving another breath. I resist the urge to shake out my scraped knuckles covered in blood. Giving Binx the proper space to do what comes next, I take a step back. More bruises for a face that's already ruined—and I haven't seen the worst of it. There are more wounds on his back from brutal lashings.

In a dungeon like this, infested with rats and feces, it's a miracle none of his wounds are infected. That tells me he's a witch of some sort, an immortal breed, but he won't display his power. The titanium band on his wrist keeps his secrets and the possible strength of that power. It'll never reach us as long as the titanium band snuffs it out.

"You've wasted your chances," I say. "You could have shared the truth with us, we're much kinder than the king."

The corner of Binx's mouth tugs up into a sickening grin, and without looking at me, he orders, "Summon the king. We'll see what he wants to do with a rebel like this."

The prisoner's breath hitches for a moment but he doesn't move. He's avoiding showing any sign of emotion. No one in their right minds wants to face the king, I watched him slaughter a man with his bare hands merely a week ago. Starting with the eyes, then the tongue, then picking through the rest of the body to find other things to tear off or ruin completely. Shiver at the thought but open the door to the guard on the other side, asking him to summon the king.

At least now, after I became the king's third hand, they listen.

"He's losing himself, you know," the prisoner mumbles. From where I stand, I whirl to face him. Those are his first words in days.

"Who?" Binx asks before I can get the question out myself. "Who is losing themselves?" His eyes dart to me, concealing an expression I can't understand. Before I can figure it out, he turns his attention back to the broken man in the chair.

"The prince," he clarifies. "Renit Marron. I saw him briefly before I left. All he cares about is you."

Something in my heart skips and the distant memory of a face returns to my mind. I reach for it, finding comfort among silver eyes. I jump, arms extended towards that light, but fall flat in my mind when that figure disappears and I'm left with nothing but questionable memories. He was the one that killed my parents, broke Arego into pieces, and forced me to be his Grounding. As if someone shoved that reality into my mind, I'm swarmed with the hatred for the banished prince who will never be legitimate, not for a second of his future. He won't be alive long enough for me to consider him as something.

"If you know where the prince is, you must tell us," I demand. "He must pay for what he's done."

The prisoner laughs. "If I reveal the location of the prince, then I give away the rebels. And I'm not willing to do that to my kind."

Renit is working with the rebels. I exchange a knowing glare with Binx and he shakes his head. That could mean their forces are stronger than we intended; even after the king laid waste to them in the flower meadows, there could be hundreds more waiting by for their chance at a fight. The king should know this information as soon as possible.

Little does this prisoner know, he gave us some of the most important information we've received in weeks. Wherever the rebels are, the prince is with them, and if we can control our forces in their direction—zoning in as one—we have a chance to lay waste to all, the prince and the rebels. Two jobs turned into one.

"Who do you keep your promises to?" My voice echoes in the small dungeon room. Again, the prisoner doesn't speak. I hope he realizes he's revealed enough already. Our forces won't diminish as much as we thought.

"Everyone knows the king is using you. No one is safe around you, even your closest friends. Haven't you noticed that everyone is keeping their distance?" His truth is laced with the gurgling of blood in the back of his throat. We need to finish this quick, his body won't last much longer like this.

Fury I've danced with before consumes me and I rush forward to wrap my sore hand around his throat. I squeeze firm and force him to look at me. His blue eyes nearly pop out of his head as he looks at me, wheezing through parted lips. I would love to end this right now and snap his neck so his hangs until the end of time. The symbol of defeat. "The king is not using me." I squeeze tighter as I hiss. He thrashes. "The king, as you will realize soon, is my salvation. I am meant to be this."

Binx places a hand on my shoulder and at first, I ignore it. I'm tired of him commanding my moves, forcing me to back away when I want to kill, kill, kill. But I oblige him and release my hold to admire the nail marks in the prisoner's neck. He deserves every wound he's receiving.

"He regrets everything," the prisoner wheezes. "He regrets not caring for you sooner and not killing his father when he had the chance."

I drag a hand through my hair. "I don't want to hear about the prince!" My head aches with how loud I scream. "I don't care whether he's alive or dead, all I care about is the truth. Tell me where the rebels are and I will pay a little visit to your precious prince."

Again, no response. I scream through my teeth. I have no ability to hold myself back as I wrap one hand around his throat and with the other, pound more punches into his face. Bone cracks, whether my own or his—I can't tell—and soon, he's screaming out in pain.

Binx's arm wraps around me and forces back, sending my last punch wildly in the wrong direction. "You're done," he orders. Before I can step out of his grip and use my other fist to hand out more wounds, he slams my back against the wall and braces strong hands on my shoulders. "I said you're done. If you move away from this wall, I'll sentence you to the dungeons. Listen or face the consequences."

I shove my hands against his chest. "You're not my leader. You don't decide my sentences; the king does."

Looking down at my fist, I find nothing but blood. There is no discerning my knuckles from the rest of my hand. The dark, thick liquid disappears underneath the sleeve of my tunic and soaks into the fabric, either spilling from me or the prisoner that is hardly moving—less than before. His nose is broken, evident so by the cracked bridge. We will paint more bruises across his cheeks and I'm glad for it.

If it wasn't for Binx, he'd have two broken legs and a dislocated shoulder.

"I am still to look after you. The king gave me that order, and it doesn't matter or not whether you care for me. I am to do what he says," Binx says carefully as if I'm a child.

I scowl at that innocent face of his; there is more to that expression than what it seems. He's as mind-controlling and persistent as the rest of them, yet he's loyal to his king. That's all I care about but something keeps nagging at me. I don't trust him completely, not after a month of being forced to his side as a partner in the king's line of loyalties. There's a fault in the extent of what he'll do for his king, a crack in the foundation. I can't seem to figure out what it is.

What I want to do most is send my fist into his cheek, too. How would the king react to that? Would he applaud me for taking initiative or would he punish me for stepping out of line?

"I don't give a shit about your orders," I growl. "You don't decide the punishments I give to the prisoners."

"That's not a punishment, you'd have killed him. I saved you from being punished by the king for killing one of his test subjects." Binx throws a hand back at the prisoner and points a gloved finger at him. The truth has been revealed for his purpose and he doesn't seem to care; his head matted with dark hair continues to hang.

"There are plenty of prisoners down here. If he dies, there are others we can use. The king has an endless supply of options, it doesn't matter if I kill one." Realizing how close we are, I take one step back. I don't care for Binx in more ways than one, but I can't say the same for the other way around. He's many it very clear in his longing gazes that there's something he finds appealing about me. An invisible wall keeps me from getting any closer.

He appears all too disappointed that I've moved out of his reach. That doesn't stop him from contradicting my point. "These are living creatures, we cannot go through them like they're nothing more than mice. At some point, these tests have to work."

I glance over his shoulder at the prisoner. There will be other rebels, men and women like him, and I know that Binx is right. In the back of my mind, the truth to that is not forgotten. I have my way of doing things and since I've developed the king's strategies, I will use them. Blow by blow, I'll deliver them until my hands are swollen and I can't bend my fingers into a fist anymore.

Sensing the presence of my leader in the hall, I cross my arms over my chest and smirk. Craning my neck to view the prisoner, I say, "You're already bowing to your king so don't worry about moving an inch."

The door opens, revealing the mass of our leader. The prisoner doesn't move, nor does he seem to breathe as the king steps forward without a word or a look in our direction and yanks back his hair, clamping a large tattooed hand around his throat.

I turn to Binx. "It turns out my ways of torture aren't so bad after all."

A muscle feathers in his jaw as I pass him. He doesn't move and allows me the freedom to pass so I can provide assistance to my king.