I never answer. I haven’t spoken since my first day here. I grunt and growl, and show them my teeth. Let them think that I’ve gone crazy, that captivity has turned me into some kind of animal. Maybe it has.
When I sleep, the nightmares come. They feel as real as the vision I had of Lorien, but offer none of the comfort. In them, an enormous Mogadorian covered in heinous tattoos and scars points a golden weapon shaped like a giant hammer in my direction. On the flat part is painted a black eye that pulses when aimed at me, creating a sensation like having my guts scooped out.
Somehow, I know who this giant monster is. Setrakus Ra. My enemy.
Sleeping is bad, but sometimes being awake is even worse. These are days where I feel like I can’t breathe. It feels as if the entire cavernous prison is sitting on top of me. The need to escape becomes primal then, and I throw myself against the glowing blue force field that keeps me in my cell, letting it buffet me across the tiny space until I’m too exhausted to do it again.
The nausea sets in then. I learn to fight through it. Each time I hit the force field, it hurts a little less.
I try not to think about Maddy.
One day the Mogs take me out of my cell. If I had to guess, I’d say that it has been months since I came here.
They lead me to a different cell, where they place me behind another blue force field. The large Mog from the van is in the room, seated on what I immediately recognize as a Loric Chest.
My Loric Chest.
“We found him in Ohio,” says the Mog matter-of-factly. “Snooping around the office of a little newsletter we’ve been keeping under surveillance. Looking for you.” He presses a button and a panel in the back of the cell raises.
My heart stops when I see what’s behind it.
It’s Sandor. My Cêpan hangs upside down from the ceiling. He’s been badly beaten—both of his eyes are blackened, his lips swollen, his torso marred by grisly slashes. Perhaps worst of all, they have torn out chunks of his usually perfectly maintained hair and left his finely tailored suit in tatters.
He is not at all the man I remember. They’ve destroyed him. My eyes fill with tears, but I fight them back.
Sandor sucks in a breath when he sees me. I wonder how different I must look to him after these months of captivity. It’s hard to say with his face so swollen and covered in bruises, but Sandor looks almost happy.
I’m ashamed of myself—both because it’s my fault we’ve been captured, and because I’m so powerless.
“My young ward,” he whispers.
The Mog turns to me. He’s holding a wicked-looking dagger.
“Your little vow of silence routine has been fun,” the Mog says to me. “But it ends today.”
He walks over to Sandor and lightly drags the dagger down his sternum.
“I don’t think you know anything,” muses my captor. “Nothing that we don’t know already, at least.” He shrugs. “But I’m going to torture your Cêpan anyway. Until you ask me to stop.”
He wants to break me. I say nothing. I remember Sandor’s lectures on what to do if the unthinkable should happen and I’m captured. Don’t give them anything, he told me. Even the slightest bit of information could hurt the other Garde who are still in hiding. Don’t let them make you weak.
I hope it’s not too late to make Sandor proud.
I stare into Sandor’s eyes. He stares back until the Mog begins making his cuts; precise, surgical slices that must hurt like hell but aren’t deep enough to kill. My Cêpan clenches his eyes shut, screaming into his gag.
When the Mog is finished, Sandor has passed out from the pain and a pool of blood has collected on the cell floor beneath him.
I keep my silence.
The next day, it starts over.
I keep my body rigid and my mouth shut. When Sandor can manage to focus on me, I think that I see pride in his eyes.
This continues for days. After every session, the Mogs return me to my cell, where I shake uncontrollably until the routine starts over again.
When they take Sandor’s fingers off, I have to turn away.
At the next session, the Mog hums tunelessly while he cuts away at Sandor. My Cêpan flits in and out of consciousness. I wait for him to make eye contact with me before I finally speak.
“I’m sorry for everything,” I croak, my voice like gravel after months of disuse.
The Mog spins to face me, stunned. “What did you say?”
Barely able to move, Sandor can manage only a subtle shake of his head, as if to absolve me of all the mistakes that led us here. I don’t find any peace in forgiveness, but maybe Sandor does in the forgiving.
Sandor closes his eyes.
And something in me snaps. Mustering every bit of strength I have, I hurl myself against the force field, ignoring the pain. There’s a buzz and a crackle and then the sound of a small explosion and I find myself sprawled on the floor of the room, looking up at the Mogadorians, whose monstrous faces betray their shock at what I’ve managed to do. I’ve disabled the force field. I’m through.
I know I only have a second to act before the element of surprise wears off. I push through overwhelming dizziness and nausea and try to use my telekinesis to wrest the dagger from the Mog’s hand, but nothing happens. The field must have somehow zapped my Legacies. For now, I’ll have to rely on the part of me that’s human. Normal.
The Mogs lunge for me, but I’m ready for them. I kick the first one in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and sending him flying, and yank the other one’s ankles, pulling his legs out from under him. His head makes a loud crack against the floor and I jump to my feet. They’re both knocked out, but not for long.