“We still couldn’t get a word out of him on your location.” Although her tone was almost conversational, her eyes had a feverish light: a hunger. “But he was willing to go down for treason and murder, and we could use that. Celane thought a public show might draw you out. Seems she was right.”

Rage had smothered my fear, but the sight of the scalpel was enough to bring it roaring back. I wanted to shrink from Verje, from those cold, reptilian eyes. She set the blade to the back of my forearm.

“But I was the only one to consider setting a watch on the Martyrium,” she whispered. “Just in case you decided to take the fight back to us. Mistake, Raughn.”

She pressed the scalpel down. I screamed as it sank into my arm. The metal felt shockingly cold; the pain electric, biting. She withdrew the blade.

“Please,” I gasped. “Don’t. Please stop.”

She cut again, and I screamed until my voice choked off. Hot blood ran down my elbow, dripping onto the floor. Verje drew out the soft severed notch of my flesh, slicing through the last strands of muscle fibre to free it. I shuddered uncontrollably, wanting to retch but unable to move, unable to even look away. The wound burned.

Verje held my flesh between her fingers, but did not move to eat it. She was watching my face.

She’s insane, I realised through a red haze. She’s … she’s relishing this.

With slow deliberation—her eyes never leaving mine—she transferred the flesh to her mouth. Blood smeared her lips. She swallowed.

“And now I get to keep you for myself,” she said with satisfaction.

I spat, but she stepped back. Her fingers curled around the handle of the scalpel.

“I have a place for you.” The candlelight glinted in her eyes. “Out of the city, where Celane won’t know to look. Our own private martyrium.”

“Go jump off the Edge,” I panted.

She grinned again, wider. Her teeth were bloody. My blood. Then an expression of wonder dawned on her face.

“Oh, I can feel it now. This is your lace? Eater, it’s like gold. And from so little…” Her skin flushed, and her lips parted. “Let’s see.”

Pain shot through my head—not the ordinary dull ache of a compulse, but an explosion of caustic command.

Raise your arm.

The lace binding my body made it impossible to follow the order, but I tried, straining desperately. The pressure built, but I could not obey; I was trapped. My head felt like it was going to split open.

“Please,” I gasped.

Verje laughed. “Please what?”

Darkness gathered at the edge of my vision. “I … I can’t…”

The binding around my left arm relaxed, and I immediately lifted it above my head. Fulfilled, the compulse stopped hurting. Blood trickled down my arm. It dripped onto my ear and collarbone.

“All this time, we thought we had power, but this?” Verje held out the scalpel. “This is what it’s meant to feel like.”