Damian's Oracle

"I'll never help you!"

"I have eternity to break you, Sofia. I'm in no rush, though I do have a plan to motivate you. It involves removing your body parts, one at a time. Or maybe peeling your skin off? Maybe fucking you 'til you scream will soften you up a bit. We'll see what works, won't we?" He lowered his head to her ear. "I have options. You don't. Trust me. Everyone breaks."

Terror washed over her at his calm, controlled words. She'd seen what he was capable of in his visions. The best she could hope for was eternity on this table, alone, knowing what she'd done to humanity's defender. She started to cry again.

Czerno circled her again and ran his hands down her body, stepping away in approval. He left with a satisfied chuckle, trailed by the man with green eyes. The sound of the door closing sounded like the sealing of her fate.

"Forgive me, Damian," she whispered again.

Two freed her a few hours later and let her walk around the room. He stood in front of the door, unmoving as she explored her surroundings. The room was empty aside from the table. There was one vent in the ceiling, not large enough for her hand let alone her body. Despair washed over her, but she forced herself to concentrate.

Damian wasn't dead. She felt it. If she could only reach him …

She faced Two, the only thing between her and escape. He was a puzzle, a man with no memory beyond waking up in the morning. The rest was blocked, as if a dam was placed there. She paced and stared at him.

… a blood relative can sustain an Oracle.

She'd heard no such thing, but then again, she didn't know anything about Oracles aside from what little she'd gleaned from books and testing herself. His theory was so far correct. Her stomach was content, and she hadn't thrown up. She approached Two hesitantly. He didn't move as she stopped in front of him. She took his hand. He obliged and removed his glove, rolling his sleeve to his elbow and withdrawing a knife. Though she wasn't hungry, she drank, exploring the black curtain shielding his memories as she did.

He pushed his sleeve up farther, revealing the bottom of a thick bicep with a partially visible tattoo. She slid her hand up his arm and nudged the sleeve. The image on his bicep was the same she wore around her neck.

Images flooded her mind, Damian's, Claire's, Isac's. She saw Damian watch the new king get his tattoo as a rite of passage, saw it again as Claire made love to the man meant to be her husband, saw it in Isac's vision as he hacked the tattooed man apart. The man hiding in the corner of her mind, he whose death plagued Damian for thousands of years.