Araminia’s wide eyes locked with his as he spoke, her indignation at being a misplaced outlet for his vengeance and rage overcome by her confusion and fear. How could he have known of a conversation she’d had hundreds of miles away, six years prior, for a brief moment of childish exploration gone awry. Her brows furrowed slightly, despite still retaining their terrified expression, even more afraid now. Could he see into her mind, exploring her memories of an event that weighed heavily upon her in recent days? How else could he have known about that chance meeting, as the woman had been executed a few days later. Her father had refused to answer her questions, and ordered her to remain in the east wing, but she knew the woman’s death had not been painless. She had heard the screaming and could smell the burning flesh even on the other side of the palace. If he knew of their meeting, was it possible that Ralaszion knew of the manor in which his obviously beloved apprentice had been killed?<br/><br/>A sob escaped her throat as he pointed out the flaw in the demands that had been made of him. He could feed her stale bread and water, and still meet their requirements. He could clothe her in rags, barely enough for modesty, and still meet their requirements. He could leave her in a cell, and of course, his explanation of everything that ‘keeping her in good health’ would allow him to get away with. Naturally, the intended meaning of the words was far different, but a man like this; it was no wonder that he chose to follow the letter rather than the spirit of his oath he’d made on her behalf.<br/><br/>The trembling returned as she struggled to hold still, fearful that even flinching would cause the incredibly sharp ritual dagger to bite into her flesh as he trailed it down her arm, her loose sleeves having fallen to her shoulders despite their length, vibrant blue-violet satins pooling on either side of her face. Tears trickled down her cheek as she realized he intended to hurt her, probably badly. And she’d seen the miracles that healing magic could pull off in her own country, only able to imagine what tortures he could bring her back from if he so chose, what he could keep her alive through. She didn’t even need him to mention a pact of Agony for her to know how terrible this was going to be.<br/><br/>She jumped a little, though not much thanks to the restraints, at the sudden sound of sliced fabric, the destruction of carefully tailored satin and sheer lace, to the soft linen chemise and corset beneath, exposing her back and the top of her feminine curves to his eyes. A sob escaped her throat again, tears dripping onto the now loose fabric of her carefully laced top as she begged and pleaded with him to reconsider, once more feeling the tip of the blade trace across her spine.<br/><br/>She let out a sharp scream as the blade cut into her flesh, unable to move away from the blade, and terrified that a sudden movement would bring his knife down against her bones. And wasn’t the spine the part of her that supported the rest of her body? She turned her head to the side, sobbing into the fabric of her sleeves as her body shook with the effort it took to keep herself still, crying loudly as the red mist poured into the gashes like acid, and embedding itself into her skin. Whatever he was doing to her, he intended these marks to last. And she was terrified that on some level, he was making the red mist she’d feared so much and hated for what it had done to her and her countrymen, a permanent part of her.