The sound of footsteps woke him from his slumber.

After what felt like endless days of wandering lost in a foggy world of distorted figures, followed by a few more of being so sick he’d been sure he’d most definitely die, his mind was finally clear now, in a way he couldn’t recall experiencing in a very, very long time. Sounds, smells, the things he saw, they all made sense for a change, they all had a logical meaning and reason. The inconvenience was that nothing in the new world that surrounded him was remotely pleasant or interesting to see or feel. At least his arms had stopped hurting, if he still had any arms left, that is. His neck hurt so much that he couldn’t force himself to raise his head to check if they were still there, stretched above his head, chained to the dark, damp, stone ceiling of that small, dark room.

The same man that had visited him several times before entered the small prison cell and, with a flick of his fingers, lit all the lamps that, with time, had been brought in to help him slowly adjust his sensitive eyes to their brightness, since he’d spent most of his life locked inside a dim-lit bedroom. This time, however, he didn’t bring anything to shove down his throat, be it those detestable concoctions or the thick, cold porridge they’d been feeding him with. Grabbing his face with hard, painful fingers, he turned his head from one side to another with a severe but analytic expression.

“I believe his clean enough, my Lord,” he declared, releasing him, making the chains that held him in place clang in protest, and only then did he notice the other man, waiting in the back, by the sturdy-looking metal door of his small prison.

Richly dressed in a knee-length, dark-red velvet frock coat, the soft red brocade gleaming in the golden light, he looked a bit younger than the first man, his dark, long hair braided at his temples and pulled back to show a face of delicate proportions.

This was hardly the first time he saw someone this beautiful. In fact, many of the faces that swam in his now clear mind, from what fragmented memories he’d been able to hold on to, were of equally beautiful and rich-looking people. The difference being that now he was able to pay attention and register many other smaller details, like the golden earring dangling from one of his ears, or the fiery stone that glistened on the gold ring he wore around his right index finger.

“I see. You’ve done a wonderful job,” the Lord commended, giving him a cold, appreciative look. “We can finally see if the legends are true,” he added with a smile he knew all too well and that made his heart skip in beat. The first man simply nodded and signaled towards the door, from where more people started pouring into the small room.

Bound to each other by their wrists and ankles with a thick rope, they looked rugged and filthy, their backs bent, their hairs disheveled. Some were even skinnier than him and they all looked gaunt and tired, as if they could collapse at any moment.

“Sit!” the man ordered once they were all inside and they obeyed, dropping to the floor where they stood, their eyes empty and vacant. They were mainly older men, a few women and a two smaller children, and none of them uttered a single word or complaint. Like him, they all wore plain, metallic collars around their necks with a single, small green stone studded on the front.

Once he made sure they are all sitting as commanded, the man turned to the Lord, now standing on the opposite side, and received a small, discreet nod. Walking to the door he accepted the glass cup and a the small sharp dagger that were offered to him by another man, and made his way back into the cell and straight up to him.

Seeing the dagger in his hands he immediately knew what would inevitably follow. They were going to bleed him, like so many others had done before them. And yet, even though he’d been cut countless times, his heart still beat anxiously faster, probably because now, for the first time in a long time, he was completely aware of what was being done to him.

“Now, don’t move. And don’t utter a single word. If you do the qinrien will render you unconscious, and I must warn you, it is not a pleasant sensation!” he added with a deadly threat in his eyes.

He didn’t know what a qin … qin-something was, he had never heard of such a thing before, but he had no intention to learn about it now. And so he did his best to remain silent, pressing his lips together as the man slid the sharp blade across his chest. The pain was burning hot, as hot as the blood that dripped from the recently opened wound, sliding over his skin. The cold of the glass pressed against his chest to collect his blood made him shiver, and the man simply held it there, until it was practically full to the brim.

“My Lord, are you sure you want to stay? Maybe it will be safer if …”

“I want to see it with my own eyes,” the Lord replied, stretching his hand, waiting for the man to hand him the glass. The man immediately obeyed and, taking the glass to his lips, the Lord gave its contents a long sip.

“Hum, sweeter than I expected …” he commented, returning the glass, from which the other man also took a sip.

“You’re right, my Lord. And see. The effects are instantaneous,” he declared, pulling his sleeve up where a deep cut was quickly healing itself, the open gash closing and mending until even the scar was gone. “I deliberately cut myself this morning so I could test its efficacy.”

The Lord nodded approvingly.

“Well, no wonder that woman made a small fortune at his expenses.”

The man agreed and made his way to the people sitting on the floor. Grabbing their faces with those iron fingers, he forced them to drink his blood as well, but not all of them. Only one of children was made to drink it. And the same happened with the men and women. By the time he was finished only roughly half of the haggard prisoners had drank his blood. And yet the effects were immediate, color returning to their faces, their scrapped knees and wrists immediately healing themselves, one of the men’s broken nose mending itself.

Returning the now empty glass and the dagger to the man still waiting by the door, he sent him away, instructing him to close all the doors on his way out. Only after everything was silent again did he return his attention to him.

He wished he could to step back when he walked up to him, his expression dark and threatening, but his bare feet barely touched the ground, and so stepping anywhere was completely out of the question. He almost recoiled, when the man touched his green ring to the collar around his neck, but then a snapping sound echoed and the collar became loose. The man took it away, the cold, damp air touching his sensitive skin for the first time after so long, and took two steps back.

“Now, scream.”

He looked at the man standing in front of him unable to understand what he meant.

“Scream!” he repeated in a threatening command and his eyes widened in confusion and disbelief. Did he mean he wanted him to scream?

The gentle face that comforted his dreams immediately popped in his mind again, softly shaking her head, pressing a dirty, warm finger against his lips. Don’t speak, never speak, was what those soft brown eyes always told him. Be as silent as possible. Don’t utter a single sound. And so, like he’d done so many times before, he pressed his lips together and remained silent.

“Hum, are you sure he understands normal speech?” the Lord asked in a doubtful tone, making the man blush slightly from anger and embarrassment.

“I am sure, my Lord!” he stated vehemently and, turning to him, slapped him hard across the face, making the chains rattle again and leaving his cheek burning. “Scream! Or I swear I’ll do my best to give you a reason to do so!”

Pressing his lips together even harder he closed his eyes and received another hard slap. Pain, like so many other unpleasant things, was hardly a stranger to him. The difference was that now he could feel it without the dulling sensation of being floating somewhere else, lost inside a thick mist. The third slap split his lip, filling his mouth with the nauseating taste of blood, and yet he refused to utter a single sound.

“Enough. You’ll damage his face too much. No one likes to purchase damaged goods, and a beautiful face is always a good selling point, even when selling a weapon,” the Lord calmly stated. “Get the branding iron, that should give him enough encouragement.”

The sound of steps filled the dark world he’d closed himself in, his stomach turning at the sound of those words, his heart racing. He didn’t know what a branding iron was but, by the sound of it, he wished he would never have to know. The smell of burning oil filled the air and, a few moments later, the sound of more steps, this time coming closer.

“Not his back or his face,” the Lord instructed and then something was pressed against his thigh.

First all he could feel was a hard block of ice pressed against his bare skin, but then the deep cold sensation quickly turned into a searing, burning pain the likes he’d never felt before. His eyes snapped open, as he tried his best to step away from that maddening pain, the tips of his toes scrapping against the rough floor, the chains above his head rattling like crazy. And then he just couldn’t hold it back any longer, his lips parting as a deafening, desperate scream of pain rose from the depths of his heart. A circle of numerous, bright red symbols appeared on the floor beneath his feet and spread all over the small chamber, climbing over the walls and covering the ceiling. And other, equally desperate voices, joined his own, as the people sitting on the floor grabbed their heads, screaming and trashing around, their eyes almost popping out of their skulls, until they were bleeding from their mouths and noses.

Once he is out of air he made his best to shut his mouth again, still gasping, heavy tears rolling down his face. The worst of the pain was gone, since the branding iron had been taken away, but his leg still hurt, still burned, and the smell of scorched flesh was simply nauseating.

Through his blurry vision he saw the man kick and turn the bodies of the people sitting and lying on the floor. Some looked as if they’d been terrified to death, their eyes wide opened, their mouths gaping, their expressions distorted as blood covered their faces. But others were clearly alive, crying and sobbing in fear, cowering against the wall and against one another.

“It is as you predicted, my Lord. Like us, the ones that drank his blood survived. All the others are dead, no matter the age or gender.”

Stepping forward for the first time the Lord approached him and looked him straight in the eye, a smile of contentment on his lips, even though his dark eyes glowed coldly.

“Dear boy, you’ve just made me the richest man alive in this damned, forsaken Province!” he declared and turned around, making his way to the door. “See that his wound is treated. I don’t want it getting infected. Put the qinrien back around his neck and clean this mess. I’ll send someone down to take out the trash,” he added and swiftly left the room.

“Yes, my Lord,” the man replied and, while he was still trying to catch his breath, tears sliding down his face, the man opened his hand, a fiery knife appearing on his palm, and swiftly and quickly cut the throats of all those who had somehow survived. In no time at all no one was left moving, no one was breathing, except the two of them. A pool of dark blood slowly spread over the stone floor, covering his toes, the scent of it making him want to throw up. Still he didn’t dare utter another sound, not even when the tight, cold collar was returned to his neck. The feeling of the thick blood covering his feet added to the fact that he was still bleeding from his wound, left him light-headed, the dark room and those cruel dark eyes spinning around him, until everything went black.