The clatter of boots on stone woke me from my nap. I wasn't truly aware of how long I was asleep, but it was more than a catnap. I made a short mental note to build a watch or some other timekeeping device.

  I was manacled to the floor on a chain just short enough to prevent me from standing, but I stood anyway. It seemed rude not to.

  I was thinking through the various rune combinations and applications for my watch project when the sound of boots resolved into the boots themselves.

  My hitherto torturer finally showed herself in what appeared to be business mode. She came in tall and imposing, her posture radiating authority and a no-nonsense attitude. Her red hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, with not a single strand out of place. Her facial features were sharp and angular, and her lips pressed tightly together in a severe expression. A very practiced resting bitch face.

  I couldn't tell from my vantage point if she had a slave collar on or not, as her outfit started high on her neck. A full set of impressive blood-red leather armor. It was tight-fitting, doing what it could to accentuate what little curves she had on her lithe body. The armor seemed more form than function, but I knew enough from my experiences with enchanting that magic can shore up a lot of sacrifices made for looks. As I traced my eyes down, I could see she had two short clubs sheathed on one side, their wood matching the color of the armor. They rested low enough to accentuate a hip sway yet remain functional. Still, while going for a particular form, she didn't wholly sacrifice function. I could admire that. The noisy boots had to be on purpose, as they were silenced as soon as she noticed me looking.

  "You like what you see? Good! You'll see it plenty as I get to ply my skills on that impressive body of yours."

  "Uhh...." I was a bit lost. "Was that supposed to be a threat? or an offer? I mean, I've been tripped by worse pickup lines."

  The context of her statement finally hit her. I will give her credit; she only turned about half as red as I had expected. Her face provides a good transition in red from hair to armor.

  "Ahem...Torture...Right?" I tried to throw her a rope.

  "Indeed, slave."

  "Why?"

  "To break you." Her face seemed to light up at the prospect of that.

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  "Why, though?"

  "Why break you? To make you an obedient little member of the Emir's menagerie."

  "Couldn't he just pay me, though?"

  "Wouldn't you run at the first chance?"

  "I mean, now? Yeah. Absolutely."

  "See. If...when I break you, you would never even think about leaving his eminence’s loving countenance." She looked like she was getting a warm hug from her favorite grandma as she said that.

  I started to get the picture. I could feel the very nature of my aspects resonating as she spoke. There was a level of brainwashing here. Her words resounded in my head. It felt like someone speaking in a foreign language. I may not have understood precisely what was being said, but I knew what language it was.

  Something had messed around with her mind, perhaps even her soul. Even through the restraints of the collar, I could feel the revulsion building. This girl was as much a victim as any other here. I was willing to bet that the Emir had a mind or soul-related aspect and an ability that allowed him to enslave others.

  "Well, if your attempt at the hotel was any indicator, we are going to be great friends over the next several decades. See, Princess, it's likely my boredom, not your skill, which eventually breaks me. Even with home-field advantage."

  As I expected, she twitched just a little at the term 'home-field advantage.’ I was guessing that such organized sports weren't a thing in Andalisa. I would still need a little more confirmation, but I was beginning to suspect Princess was another Outworlder.

  "But shall we get started? Or do I have time for another nap? It's going to take you forever, so another forty winks ain't gonna matter too much, now is it?"

  She was not impressed by my attempts at banter, even as valiant as they were. She stood stern-faced and arms crossed while she evaluated me. Finally, a plan must have materialized in her head, or at least an approach.

  “String him up.”

  At first, I thought she was just vocalizing her plan because it didn’t have the tone of an order, but I was wrong. Bolyan appeared out of the darkness. Who knew that a minotaur could be stealthy? Or had I just become so reliant on all the extra abilities that I forgot how this worked?

  It was not pleasant as the minotaur lifted me by my manacles and hung me from a hook on the ceiling. Another thing that I did not notice. I was rustier than the manacles, shameful. Hopefully, some of Mercy’s loving ministrations would help sharpen all that back. There was definitely a memory-jogging effect of reliving a traumatic experience. This was not my first rodeo.

  It was my first time with magic, though, and that was a lesson. She didn’t even have to touch me, and pain erupted. I was prepared for physical pain, and Mord had only improved that. This was not physical. It was not like my nerves were conducting signals received from the skin. No, this was a direct cerebral download of pain. It was a direct AirDrop of ouch and a Napster torrent of Metallica’s complete work, plus live from Madison Square Garden of Pain. In other words, it actually fucking hurt.

  Movies don’t do torture justice. There is no hero stoically grimacing as a taser is taped to his balls. You will scream, you will pass out, you will piss yourself. I did two out of the three. It was the first round, and Mercy was going easy.