Rufus stumbled as Kormos's warriors yanked his chains, dragging him through the jeering crowd. His wrists were raw, his body bruised, but it was the stones hurled by the onlookers that left the deepest marks. One sharp rock struck him above the eye, splitting the skin and sending blood trickling down his face. He didn't flinch.
Arslan stood silently, his cold gaze fixed on the human being paraded like an animal. The crowd's jeers grew louder as Rufus was shoved against a great stone altar, his hands bound tightly behind him. A Scethian chieftain stepped forward, his presence commanding, a long whip coiled in his hand.
"One lash," the chief declared, his voice booming across the assembly, "for every recorded death from the Thuvan tribe at the hands of your kind." The crowd roared in approval, their fists raised high.
The first crack of the whip was deafening, splitting the air like a thunderclap. Rufus's body jerked, but he made no sound. The whip struck again. And again. Each lash tore through his flesh, leaving long, jagged trails of blood.
The chieftain didn't pause. The lashes rained down like a relentless storm, each one heavier than the last, until Rufus's back was a canvas of raw, torn flesh. Still, he did not cry out. His silence, his refusal to break, began to weigh on the crowd. The cheers faltered, some muttering among themselves as unease crept into their hearts. What kind of man endured this without a sound?
When the Thuvan chief was finished, another chieftain strode forward, his own whip uncoiling with a hiss. He raised it high. "One lash for every recorded death from the Galayan tribe!" he shouted.
The punishment began anew, merciless and unrelenting. Each blow sent fresh waves of pain through Rufus's body, but his jaw remained clenched, his resolve ironclad. Blood dripped steadily down his back, pooling at his feet, but his spirit stood unbowed. The crowd, once ravenous for his suffering, now watched in a tense, muted silence.
When the final chieftain stepped back, Kormos himself approached. He stared down at Rufus, whose body sagged against the stone, trembling and broken. But when Kormos met Rufus's eyes, he found no submission there—only defiance.
The silence stretched unbearably. Then, Rufus slowly raised his head, locking eyes with Kormos. With what little strength he had left, he pressed his bound hands against the stone behind him. Divine power rippled through his body, and the ancient altar cracked beneath his touch.
The crowd gasped as the great stone broke, the sacred monument scarred. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Then, all at once, the gathered masses fell utterly silent. The wind howled through the valley, carrying away the whispers of their disbelief.
Kormos narrowed his eyes but raised a hand, signaling for silence. He spoke in a low, measured tone. "Enough," he ordered, and the chieftains reluctantly obeyed, stepping back.
Rufus was unbound, his chains falling to the ground with a heavy clink. He collapsed to his knees, his breath ragged, his body barely holding together. Two warriors seized him by the arms, dragging him away.
Few were alive from the times the humans came, and at that time, though outnumbered, the humans won and carved a bloody path. A path they were able to carve as they had the unyielding will for it. Now once more, that same will showed, and the sassans showed fear.
~~
The cold stone cell was dark and damp, a pit. Rufus lay sprawled on the ground, his body a patchwork of blood and bruises. The pain in his back was unbearable, but the wounds started already healing themselves
His vision blurred from exhaustion and blood loss. As his eyes fluttered shut, a familiar figure appeared before him. Harley, her face aglow with a soft, ethereal light, knelt beside him. Her blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her warm, mischievous smile was just as he remembered it.
"Harley?" Rufus whispered hoarsely. He knew it wasn't real, but in this moment, he didn't care. Tears mixed with the blood on his face. "Are you… ashamed of me? Lying here, broken, failing you… failing Haley…"
The mirage tilted her head, and then gave a sly grin. "Ashamed?" Her voice was rich with sarcasm. She placed a shimmering hand on his cheek. "Damn yes I'm ashamed!" she snapped. "You're the mighty King of a whole damned nation, and here you are, wallowing in self-pity!"
Rufus blinked, stunned.
"Where's the guy who used to stand up to bullies when we were kids?" she demanded. "The guy who wouldn't back down, no matter how much bigger they were?"
A faint, tired smile crept across Rufus's lips. "He's still here," he muttered. "Just… tired."
Harley's smile softened. She leaned closer, her voice gentler now. "You've never given up before, little brother. Don't start now. What limits you?"
"My mind," Rufus answered,"These feelings, resentment, anger, pain. I will take them on myself."
"Haley's waiting for you. And you're not going to let some overgrown warlord or a bunch of gods stop you, are you?" she asked.
Rufus shook his head weakly. "Never."
Her image began to fade, the light growing dim. "Good," she said softly, her voice echoing in the stillness. "I'll be watching."
As she vanished, the cold reality of the cell returned. The only real company he had now was the skittering of rats, their tiny claws scratching against the stone floor.
Rufus closed his eyes for a moment, his breath steadying. The hallucination had left him with a small spark of hope, and it was enough to keep him going.
The sound of heavy boots echoed down the corridor. The cell door groaned open, and two guards stepped in, their faces hidden behind helmets. They hauled Rufus to his feet, their grips unforgiving, and dragged him back into the light of Samarqand. His steps faltered, his body weak—but his spirit, scarred though it was, refused to break.