Chapter 2 1

The Lesson in Stone

The darkness inside the carriage was total, a thick and smothering black that filled her eyes and lungs. It carried the scent of damp velvet, dust, and a faint, sickly perfume. The only sounds were the clatter of wheels, the jingle of harnesses, and the furious beating of her own heart. The ropes on her wrists had been replaced by cold iron bands that bit into her skin with every bump in the road.

She did not cry. Her tears had burned away in the ashes of her village, leaving her hollow and dry. Now her mind was sharp and clear. She went over every moment of the attack, searching for weakness, for something she could use. Raymond's smug face, his clean armor in the middle of the ruin-it was all a show. He wanted to seem unstoppable, a force of nature. But he was just a man. A vicious, power-mad man, but a man all the same. And men could be killed.

Remember the palace halls. The servants' passages. The armory in the west wing. The old gate by the rose garden that Father said never locked right. Remember Porter's face. Remember Mother's shawl. Remember Father's laugh. Use it all. Let it be the fire that forges the blade.

Time meant nothing in the dark. Finally, the carriage slowed, turned, and stopped. The door opened-not onto a palace courtyard, but into a yawning mouth of torch-lit stone. A dungeon entrance, cut into the side of a mountain fortress: Raymond's stronghold, the Wolf's Den. Cold, damp air rushed in, smelling of wet rock and something metallic, like old blood.

Rough hands pulled her out. She stumbled on stiff legs but refused to fall. She lifted her chin and met the gaze of the guards. Their eyes were not bored here; they were watchful and cold. They marched her down slippery stone steps, deeper into the earth. The sounds of the world above faded, replaced by the drip of water, the scuttle of unseen things, and distant, echoing moans that might have been human or just the wind through cracks.

Her cell was not a cage of bars, but a small box carved from stone. A high slit let in a grey thread of daylight. A pile of stale straw lay in one corner for a bed. A bucket sat in the other. The door was solid oak, banded with iron, with a small, barred window at eye level.

The iron bands were removed. The door slammed shut. The lock turned with a heavy, final clunk.

Then, silence. A deep and terrible silence.

This was her new world. And so, her training began again-not with swords, but with watching. She noted the guards' rotations: every six hours. She learned their footsteps: the heavy drag of the jailor, Brutus, and the light, skipping step of the boy who brought her watery gruel and hard bread. She listened to the rhythms of the fortress. She moved in the small space, stretching, staying strong, using the stone walls as her only partner.

Days blurred into weeks, marked only by the pale grey light from the slit.

Then one evening, a different sound approached. Not the jailor's shuffle or the boy's quick steps. This was a confident, measured walk, the clean click of boots on stone. It stopped outside her door.

The little window slid open. A single storm-grey eye looked in, then vanished. The key turned.

Raymond stood in the doorway. He was not in armor, but dressed in fine dark velvet and silk. He looked like a nobleman visiting his wine cellar. He held a delicate cloth to his nose, though the cell only smelled of damp and straw.

"Little Con," he said, his voice a smooth murmur that made the stone feel colder. "I hear you've been troubling my warden. Refusing meals. Staring through poor Brutus. It seems I must discipline you myself. Bring her out."

Two new guards, larger than Brutus, entered. She did not resist. Fighting now was just pointless theater. She let them lead her out into a wider torch-lit hall, down into a sunken room she had not seen before.

This room was made for one purpose. In the center stood a heavy wooden table, stained dark in patches. Iron rings were set into its sides. Chains hung from the walls. A brazier glowed in one corner, heating irons that were not yet in use. The air was warmer here, thick with the smell of smoke, sweat, and old fear.

She was pushed against the table. Her rough prison dress-the same one she'd been captured in, now filthy and torn-was ripped from her shoulders. The cold, damp air touched her skin. She was forced forward, pressed against the cold and sticky wood. Leather straps were fastened around her wrists and ankles, binding her to the rings. She was completely exposed, completely vulnerable.

She closed her eyes. I am stone. I am water. I am not here.

Raymond walked a slow circle around the table. "I have been thinking about our first lesson," he said, his tone conversational. "Obedience grows from understanding. And understanding requires... clarity." He paused by the brazier. When he turned, he held not a hot iron, but a whip. It was cruel and fine-braided black leather, tapered to a sharp, terrible point.

"We'll start simply," he said, moving behind her. "I want to hear you speak as I whip you. You will name your wrongs. You will acknowledge my authority. Do you understand, Constantina?"

She nodded, her cheek pressed to the rough wood.

"Say it."

"I understand," she said, her voice flat, empty of the tremor in her soul.

Thwip-CRACK.

The first lash was a line of white-hot lightning across her back. The pain was so shocking, so total, it stole her breath. A gasp ripped from her lips.

"Your first transgression," Raymond's voice came, calm, almost teacher-like. "You defied me in the village. You tried to fight. What do you say?"

She squeezed her eyes shut. Stone. Water. Not here. "I... have been a bad girl," she forced out, the words like ash.

CRACK. The second lash landed just below the first, another stripe of fire.

"You broke Master Raymond's rules," he prompted.

"I have broken Master Raymond's rules."

CRACK.

"You are being punished for your offense."

"I am being punished for my offense." Each word was a stone she had to lift and throw.

CRACK.

"Master Raymond is fair and just." His voice held a hint of amusement.

A wave of nausea rose. She swallowed it. "Master Raymond is fair and just."

"Louder!" The command cracked like the whip itself.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Three blows in fast succession, landing on already screaming nerves. The pain blurred her vision. A small, broken sound escaped her.

"LOUDER!" he roared.

"MASTER RAYMOND IS SUPREME!" she screamed, the words tearing her throat raw. It was not submission-it was defiance given voice.

That seemed to please him. The blows came faster now, a storm of overlapping pain. CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

"MASTER RAYMOND IS MY KING!" The last cry was a whimper, born of broken flesh, a desperate plea for the pain to stop. It was the sound he wanted.

The whipping stopped. Sudden silence filled the room, broken only by her ragged sobs and the soft, almost soundless drip, drip of blood on stone.

Raymond walked around to face her. He was barely flushed, his breathing even. He looked down with something like approval. He reached out and, with a gentleness more violating than any blow, brushed a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead. She flinched, a full-body shudder she could not control.

"Very good, Constantina," he said softly. "You have been a good girl. You learn quickly." He straightened and tossed the whip to a servant waiting in the shadows. "Wash her. Tend to the wounds. Dress her in the new clothes. Then bring her to my chambers."

He left without another glance, his boots clicking away into silence.

The servants-a grim-faced woman and a young man-approached. They unstrapped her. Her legs gave way, and they caught her, their hands impersonal. They half-carried her to a small side room with a stone basin of lukewarm water and rough cloths.

As the woman began to wash the blood and sweat from her torn back, the water stinging like new fire, Constantina's mind began to wake from its numb shell.

The shame was poison, but the pain was just information. He likes the performance. He needs the words more than the breaking. He wants me cleaned and brought to him... not for that, not yet. He wants to talk. To gloat. To play the gracious winner.

The woman applied a sharp, stinging salve. Constantina bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.

He sees this as a kind of courtship. A cruel, twisted courtship. He wants to conquer my mind, to make me willing in my own surrender. That is his weakness. His pride.

They dressed her in the "new clothes"-a simple, high-necked dress of dark grey wool, fine but severe. It was a uniform. The dress of a prisoner who dines with her jailer.

As they led her, shuffling, through the torch-lit halls toward the upper keep, Constantina's thoughts were a silent, burning storm.

You want to own the symbol, Raymond? Then you must keep the symbol alive. You must feed it, clothe it, even talk to it. And every time you look at me, you will see not just your prize, but the living memory of all you destroyed. I am your ghost. And I will haunt you until I kill you.

She wiped the last wetness from her eyes with the back of her hand. The pain was a cloak she now wore. The hatred was the heart beating in her chest.

Be patient, Constantina, she chanted silently, matching the words to her limping steps. The time is almost right. Learn his fortress. Learn his routines. Learn him. Your revenge will not be a sword in the dark. It will be the fall of his whole world. And you will be there to watch it burn.

The servant stopped before a heavy, ornate door of polished oak, carved with the snarling wolf of House Diendrik. He knocked once.

From within, Raymond's voice, smooth and inviting, called, "Enter."

The door opened, revealing firelight, the gleam of polished wood and gold, the smell of roasted meat and wine. A world away from the stone and blood below.

Constantina took a deep, steadying breath, squared her shoulders against the fire raging down her back, and crossed the threshold.

The next part of her schooling had begun.