SWNOVELS Emperor of Rage: Chapter 45
“Good morning.”
I flinch, shuddering as the staticky voice crackles over the loudspeaker, cutting through the silence like a blade.
I swallow the rasping dryness in my throat, blinking awake to the same dull, dim light that’s been on since we got here. Nearby, Hana’s eyes open, her blonde hair limp, her face waxy, the purplish circles under her eyes growing.
“Hana—”
“I’m fine,” she mumbles curtly, forcing a weak smile.
But she’s not. None of us are.
I get up and walk over to check on Kir. Oh God…
He’s not doing well. At all. His face already looks like he’s halfway into the grave, and he can barely lift his head off the ground anymore. I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been in here. Three days? Four? Five?
Long enough that if Kir stays here much longer, he’s going to die.
That’s not “letting negativity in” or “giving up hope”. That’s reality. Hana and I have done what we can for the wound on his side, but he’s lost a ton of blood, it’s definitely infected, and we don’t have anything to clean it with. The small amount of water that gets slid once a day through the little slat at the bottom of the door to this room, along with some grimy looking food, is basically putrid.
I glance back over to Hana, slumped against the wall, looking…gray. Was it the water? The food? The stale air in here? Whatever it is, she’s not well. Her eyes have had a listless look since yesterday, and the perspiration on her forehead tells me the fever hasn’t gone down either.
I try and push my anxiety down as I turn back to Kir. I peel the shirt away from his wound, my nose wrinkling at the smell.
He needs a doctor. Like, yesterday. So does Hana.
After I adjust Kir to make him comfortable, I head to the bucket in the far, dim corner of the room. After I pee, I shuffle back over to Hana to check on her. She weakly waves me off.
“I’m fine, Frey.”
I grit my teeth. She gives me a look that says “I know you don’t believe me, but please leave it.”
So I do. For now.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?”
We both flinch at the tinny voice from the speaker in the ceiling. It’s the same grating tone I’ve heard every morning for the past however many days we’ve been in here, always followed by the same demand, the same twisted promise. But today… Something’s different. The words feel heavier. Colder. Darker. As if even the disembodied voice has grown tired of its sick game.
I shiver on the stone floor, the cold seeping into my bones. My gaze shifts to Kir, slumped against the damp wall. He’s barely conscious, his breathing shallow and uneven. His skin gleams with a sickly sheen, the infection spreading faster than I anticipated. Every cough, every ragged breath feels like it’s chipping away at what little time we have left with him.
Hana frowns beside me. She’s tried to stay strong, but I can see it in her eyes—the fear, the helplessness. Every day the voice asks me to do the unthinkable. Every day, I refuse.
I glance at Kir again, my heart twisting in my chest. This man gave me a second chance at life. A purpose beyond just stealing to survive. I’ve admired him, respected him, and loved him for years.
And he might be my father.
It feels insane to trust a single thing coming out of the loudspeaker above our heads. But it’s something I can’t let go of. I look over to Kir, and wonder what if.
What if the disembodied voice is telling the truth? What if the man I’ve looked to for guidance and considered family all these years is actually my blood?
It shouldn’t change anything, but—it does. There’s a shift inside me, a difference in how I see him, how I see myself.
Did he know? Has he always known?
I want to scream the question at him, but he’s too weak. Too far gone. His body is shutting down.
The urge to scream rises up in my chest, but I choke it down. I can’t show weakness. Not now, not to the monster that has us.
“I’m not doing it,” I rasp, my voice raw and broken. “I’m not killing him.”
The loudspeaker hisses back silence for a long, heavy moment. I wonder if the voice will even answer at all. Maybe they’ve finally given up, maybe they’ll just—
The creak of metal grinds through the room as the small tray slides through the slot under the door. It’s the same every time: a half-rotted piece of bread, and a cup of water that looks like it was dredged from a fetid puddle. The sheer minimum to keep us alive.
Barely.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” the voice says, smooth and unbothered. “We have all the time in the world.”
Dear God. The way the voice says it—the confidence, the patience.
It’s unnerving.
It tells me that whoever is behind that voice truly believes no one’s coming for us: that we’re completely alone here, tucked away in whatever hell they’ve created, where no one will ever find us.
I look at Hana. Her eyes are glassy, but there’s still an edge of determination in them. She hasn’t given up yet. Not completely. But I know she’s just as scared as I am. We both know what the voice means by “all the time in the world.”
No one’s coming.
The room is quiet except for Kir’s labored breathing and the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the walls. Hana and I don’t need to speak to understand what’s happening. Each day that passes, each day we deny the voice’s demand, we grow weaker. Kir grows weaker. Eventually, we won’t be able to refuse anymore. Or Kir will just die anyway.
Panic starts to creep in. But I force myself to stay calm. I can’t give in to the fear. Can’t let it take over.
Because deep down, in that part of me that still clings to hope, I know Mal is out there. I can feel it.
He’s coming.
He has to be.