Chapter 5 - The Trap is Sprung!

I slipped through the shadows of Blackrock Hold like a cockroach under a kitchen door. Quiet, determined, and frankly, way too comfortable in a place that stank of death. Every muscle in my body ached from the fight with that mutant guard, and I could still taste the chemical tang of its yellow blood in my mouth. My ribs screamed where the thing had squeezed me, and dried blood flaked off my face every time I changed expression. The flickering torches lining the hallway made my job a pain in the ass, but nothing a little Shadow Dance technique couldn't handle. Mistress Ashara would've been proud, or more likely, she'd have smacked me upside the head for being in this cursed fortress in the first place.

The quest had been pretty specific: stop the Blood Warlock Malkor, rescue the kidnapped girls, and try not to die in the process. Marcus hadn't mentioned anything about a cursed book. But the intel I'd gathered on the road pointed to the Tome of Wanton Desecration as Malkor's power source. Black leather, brass fittings, impossible to miss. Take the book, weaken the warlock. At least, that was my theory.

I paused at the threshold of the chamber, my breath catching like a pickpocket with his hand in a paladin's pocket. The stone room stretched before me, illuminated by guttering torches whose flames danced in ways that made no sense. Reminded me of that time I ate those mushrooms Felix had found. That had been a fun night, at least until the vomiting started.

The chamber wasn't large, but it felt... important. Like walking into a temple, if temples were designed by someone with a hard-on for the macabre. And there, at its center, sat a low altar of black stone, its surface polished to a gleam that had no business existing in a place this ancient and decrepit.

Atop it sat what I hoped was Malkor's weak spot. Not the main objective, but if I could snag it on the way to gutting the warlock? Two birds, one heist.

The book was larger than I'd expected, almost the size of a round shield, but there was no mistaking it for anything mundane. Its leather cover seemed to absorb the torchlight rather than reflect it, the darkness deeper than any natural shadow. Twisted sigils were stamped into its surface, forming patterns that my brain refused to follow. Brass fittings glinted dully at the corners, shaped like tiny, snarling mouths.

"Well, aren't you the ugliest little fucker I've ever seen," I whispered, adjusting my grip on my daggers as I approached. The air grew colder with each step, like wading into a mountain lake. My enchanted brooch, a parting gift from Ashara, warmed against my chest, pushing back against the chill.

I was three paces from the altar when the book moved.

Not "slid across the surface" moved. Not "fell open" moved. The entire fucking thing shuddered, like a dog shaking off water, and then, I shit you not, it spoke.

"You absolute dimwit, you really think you can steal me?"

I froze mid-step, one foot awkwardly suspended. The voice was male, rough as gravel, and loud enough to wake the dead. It echoed off the stone walls, multiplying until it felt like I was surrounded by a dozen mocking voices.

"Um," I said, because apparently years of roguish training hadn't prepared me for talking books.

"'Um' he says! By the thirteen hells, they're sending children to retrieve me now!" The book actually hopped, hopped! in apparent frustration. "Look at you! You can barely hold those daggers properly. Your stance is atrocious, and that's not even how you do a proper Shadow Dance. In my day, rogues knew how to move the darkness, not hide in it like frightened rabbits!"

I straightened, oddly offended. "Hey, my Shadow Dance is perfectly fine, thank you very much. And I'm nineteen, not a child."

"Nineteen!" the book cackled. "I've had wine stains older than you! Ink smudges with more life experience!"

As it ranted, I noticed something I hadn't seen from a distance. The cover was adorned with more than sigils; it had a massive eye embedded in the center, a real fucking eye that blinked and rolled and focused directly on me with palpable disdain.

"Are you quite done staring?" the book demanded. "I know I'm gorgeous, but it's rude to gawk."

I shook my head, trying to clear it. Enchanted items weren't unheard of, but most of them didn't have the personality of a tavern drunk.

"Look," I said, taking another step forward, "you weren't my main target, but you'll make a nice bonus. So how about you shut that eye and come quietly? You can insult my technique all you want on the way."

The eye narrowed. "Ah, Ashbourne... haven't been there in, oh, two centuries? Has that delightful brothel with the twins still in business? No, don't answer, you wouldn't know quality entertainment if it sat on your face."

My cheeks burned. This book talked dirtier than the drunks at the Bent Spoon Inn, and that was saying something. "Are you always this charming, or am I special?"

"Special? Oh, you're special alright. Special like a three-legged horse. Useful for nothing but glue." The eye swiveled, taking in my entire form. "Though I suppose you're not entirely without potential. Decent bone structure. Might even be handsome if you didn't look like you dressed in the dark."

"Thanks, I think." I'd nearly reached the altar now. The smart play would be to throw a sack over the damn thing, eye and all, and make a run for it. But something, curiosity, stupidity, or that self-destructive streak Ashara always warned me about, made me hesitate. "So what exactly are you?"

"What am I?" The book seemed to swell with indignation. "I am the Tome of Wanton Desecration, repository of the most exquisite forbidden knowledge in six kingdoms! I witnessed the fall of the Crimson Empire, guided the hand of thirteen Blood Emperors, and personally oversaw orgies that would make your innocent little balls shrivel up in terror!"

"Uh-huh." I was close enough now to reach out and touch it. "And you ended up on an altar in Blackrock Hold because...?"

"Because my last owner was an incompetent hack who couldn't tell a blood ritual from a nosebleed," the book sniffed. "Besides, I like it here. The ambiance suits my complexion."

I snorted. The thing was ridiculous. "Well, sorry to cut your vacation short, but you're coming with me."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the book warned, its voice dropping low enough to rattle my teeth.

"Yeah? Why's that?" I reached out, my fingers hovering inches above its cover.

"Because you're about to make a mistake that ranks somewhere between fucking a porcupine and challenging a dragon to a belching contest."

I grinned. "Not the worst odds I've played." And I placed my hand on the book.

The moment my skin made contact, white-hot pain shot up my arm. Dark energy crackled around my fingers, leaping and twisting like something alive and pissed off. I tried to pull away, but my hand wouldn't move, stuck to the cover as if glued there.

"What the fuuuu" I started to say, but the words died in my throat as the symbols on the walls flared to life.

Every etched rune blazed with blue fire, casting the chamber in an eerie, pulsing light. Glowing threads shot out of the walls and wrapped around me before I could blink. Arms, legs, torso, all of it locked down tight. A magical net, and it squeezed tighter with every heartbeat.

"I did warn you," the book sighed, sounding almost disappointed. "But no, you had to touch. You young ones never listen."

I fought against the invisible restraints, muscles straining until they trembled, but the more I struggled, the tighter they gripped. My daggers clattered to the floor, useless. The magic crawled up my neck like a chokehold from the inside out, making my teeth chatter and my vision blur.

"What... is... this?" I managed to gasp.

"A ward, obviously. Fairly basic protection spell, though I will admit Malkor added some nasty flourishes. The pain should start in your extremities first, then work its way to your core. Rather like being eaten alive by ants, I'm told."

As if on cue, my fingers and toes began to burn with excruciating pain. I bit down on my tongue to keep from screaming.

"Fuck!" I spat, my body jerking against the restraints.

The book chuckled, a sound like crumbling parchment. "Such language from one so young! I approve. Most people whimper at this point."

The pain intensified, spreading up my calves and forearms like my blood was being replaced with molten metal. Sweat poured down my face, stinging my eyes and soaking my collar.

"Make it stop," I hissed through clenched teeth.

"Can't," the book replied cheerfully. "Not my spell. I'm the bait, as it were. The pretty lure for stupid fish."

My knees buckled, but I didn't fall. The magical bonds held me upright, suspended in the center of the chamber like a puppet whose strings had tangled. The room spun around me, torchlight and shadow blurring into a nauseating whirl.

"Why?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

The eye on the cover softened. "Nothing personal, boy. The way the game is played. If it's any consolation, Malkor usually keeps his playthings alive for quite some time. You might even survive long enough to become interesting."

I wanted to spit another curse, but my tongue felt swollen, too large for my mouth. The pain had reached my chest now, squeezing my lungs so that each breath came in shallow gasps.

"My... friends... will come," I lied, because no one knew where I was. Felix had warned me not to take this job. But no, I'd been too cocky, too eager for the challenge.

"Your friends," the book repeated, and if a book could look pitying, this one did. "Oh, child. No one comes to Blackrock Hold willingly. And no one leaves without Malkor's permission."

As darkness crept into the edges of my vision, the last thing I saw was that single eye, watching me with what might have been regret. The last thing I heard was the book's gravelly voice:

"Pity. You would've made a decent thief, with proper training."

The world went black.

*

The creak of ancient hinges yanked me back to consciousness like a hook through my guts. My vision was all wrong colors and swimming shapes, but I could make out the heavy door splitting open across the chamber. The magical restraints still bit into my flesh, blue light pulsing along my veins like parasitic worms. I tried to swallow but found my mouth drier than a nun's cunt, and twice as uncomfortable.

"Ah, our guest awakens," said the grimoire, sounding positively delighted. "Right on time for the main attraction."

I blinked hard, forcing my eyes to focus on the figure now gliding into the chamber. He moved with unnatural grace, as if his feet didn't quite touch the stone floor. Ornate crimson robes trailed behind him, magical runes stitched into the fabric pulsing with a faint inner light. The robes parted enough to show paper-white skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, and above them, deep-set eyes the color of fresh blood. Long white hair fell in straight sheets past his shoulders, so pale it seemed to glow in the torchlight. His fingers were long, gnarled things that resembled tree roots more than human appendages, clutching a crooked staff topped with what looked disturbingly like a shriveled human heart.

He stopped three paces from me and tilted his head, studying me the way a butcher studies a carcass. Those crimson eyes moved from my face to my boots and back again, slow, deliberate, cataloging. The heart atop his staff pulsed once, a wet throb that I felt in my own chest.

"Fuck me sideways," I whispered, recognition hitting like a mallet to the skull. "You're him. The Blood Warlock."

Malkor didn't answer immediately. He reached out with one of those root-knuckled fingers and traced a line down my cheek. His touch was ice cold and left a trail of numbness behind it, like frostbite in the shape of a fingernail. I flinched, hard, but the bonds held me in place.

"Young," he said, almost to himself. His voice was cultured, the kind of voice that belonged at a royal banquet discussing philosophy. Then he smiled, and every trace of civility drained out of it. "And stupid. My favorite combination."

He stepped back, planting the staff on the stone floor with a crack that echoed through the chamber. "I prefer the title 'Master of Blackrock Hold' these days." He circled me slowly, robes whispering across the floor. "And you are...?"

"Nobody," I said quickly. "Just a thief. Wrong place, wrong time. You know how it goes."

The grimoire snorted. "He's Samuel Thornwood, barely nineteen and about as skilled as a three-legged donkey trying to ice skate."

I shot the book a glare. "Thanks for that."

"Don't mention it," the grimoire replied cheerfully. "I believe in honesty above all else. Well, honesty and a good blood orgy, but those are getting harder to find these days."

Malkor completed his circle and stopped in front of me again. His smile hadn't changed, still that cold slash across his face. "Samuel Thornwood," he repeated, rolling the name around his mouth like he was deciding whether to spit or swallow. "How fortunate that you've joined us. The evening's entertainment was lacking a certain... youthful vitality." He leaned close enough that I could smell him: old parchment, copper, and something sweet and rotten underneath, like fruit left to decay in a locked room. "I do hope you scream well. The last rogue they sent barely managed a whimper."

Hands like iron bands closed around my arms, yanking me upright. I hadn't heard the guards approach. They held me fast as the others closed in.

I thrashed against their grip, but between the ward's lingering pain and the bruises from the mutant guard, my strength was spent. Blood trickled from a dozen small wounds, and the fire in my ribs made it hard to focus. My daggers were already on the floor, useless.

"A valiant effort," Malkor said, watching my struggle with the polite interest of a man observing an insect. "Most die much quicker."

I spat blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."

His expression shifted, the cultured mask snapping back into place like he'd flipped a coin. "Charming. Take him below. The ritual requires fresh blood, and his will do nicely."

The grimoire's eye widened. "The Heart-Rending? But that needs a virgin sacrifice!"

"Don't look at me," I said automatically. "Definitely not a virgin."

"Thankfully, we have several suitable candidates already prepared," Malkor replied, ignoring my comment. "This one will merely provide the catalyst."

The guards began dragging me toward the door, my heels scraping against the stone.

"Wait!" I called out, the word scraping out of my throat before I'd even thought it through. Stalling. I was stalling, because being dragged to a blood ritual felt like the kind of thing you should delay as long as possible. "What about the book? You're just going to leave your most prized possession sitting on an altar?"

It was a desperate play. Keep him talking, buy a few more seconds, maybe spot a weakness. Probably stupid. Definitely stupid.

Malkor paused, then swept a hand toward the altar. The grimoire rose into the air, floating to him like a trained bird returning to its master.

"How thoughtful of you to remind me," he said, catching the book with one hand. His smile said he knew exactly what I'd been trying to do. The grimoire made a sound suspiciously like a purr.

"Don't look so disappointed," it told me. "This is just business. Though I will say, you've been more entertaining than most of the dullards who try to steal me."

The guards hauled me through dark corridors lit only by the occasional sputtering torch. Down we went, descending worn stone stairs that seemed to go on forever. The air grew colder, damper, thick with the smell of mold and fear.

I tried to keep track of the turns, left, right, right again, through an archway carved with leering faces, but pain and exhaustion muddled my mind. By the time we reached the dungeons, I was barely conscious, my head lolling against my chest.

The cell door screeched open, and I was thrown inside like a sack of turnips. I hit the damp floor hard, what little breath I had left rushing from my lungs in a pained wheeze. The door slammed shut behind me, the lock engaging with a finality that sounded a lot like a coffin lid closing.

For a long moment, I lay there, cataloging my injuries. None seemed immediately fatal, though that was small comfort given the circumstances. Finally, I managed to push myself up to a sitting position, my back against the cold stone wall.

And that's when I realized I wasn't alone.

In the dim light filtering through a tiny, barred window near the ceiling, I could make out huddled forms. Women, mostly, their garments torn and stained, their skin marked with bruises and dried blood. Some appeared to be sleeping or unconscious. Others stared at me with hollow eyes that didn't track my movement, like they'd forgotten what a new face even meant.

"Well, shit," I muttered, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain through my ribs. "This day keeps getting better."

One of the women, barely more than a girl with tangled blonde hair and tear-streaked cheeks, edged closer to me. Her dress, once fine by village standards, hung in tatters around her thin frame. Dark bruises circled her wrists where shackles had bitten deep.

"Are you from Oakhaven too?" she whispered.

I shook my head. "Ashbourne. Passing through, as it were."

Another woman, older, with a gash across her forehead that had scabbed over, gave a bitter laugh. "No one 'passes through' Blackrock Hold. You're here because he wants you here."

"Yeah, I'm getting that impression," I said, trying to keep my tone light despite the growing knot of dread in my stomach. "So, anyone know what this Heart-Rending ritual involves? Sounds unpleasant."

The silence that followed told me everything I needed to know.

The blonde girl began to cry silently, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on her face. The older woman turned away, shoulders hunched as if warding off a blow.

"Great," I sighed, letting my head fall back against the wall. "Fucking great."

In the corner, someone moaned in their sleep, a sound of such profound despair that it made my skin crawl. Rats scurried in the shadows, bold enough to venture close to the huddled prisoners.

I thought of Felix, who'd warned me this job smelled fishy. Of Lily, who'd offered me a safer alternative. Of all the comfortable tavern beds and warm bodies I'd never enjoy again if I didn't find a way out of this mess.

Because one thing was clear: if I didn't escape before this ritual took place, I wouldn't be escaping at all.