Strung Between Lies and Silence

21st day of the 7th moon, 1162 HC

Mulsae lounges at a far perimeter table with nothing constructive to do with his hands because wine isn't allowed until after Zudaeshi's arrival. So he worries his thumb on Hanna's leash. He is worried. Hanna is about to be presented to Garrick again to give him another chance to admit he knows her. But there is nothing to admit because the truth is he doesn't know her. What will Zudaeshi do to Hanna tonight to pull on Garrick's heartstrings?

Hanna lounges on the floor leaning on Mulsae's leg, while Damion lounges and leans on his other leg. They're purposefully lounging about to give Hanna's body as much rest as possible. She hasn't completely recovered from last night's torture.

The marble white floor gleams beneath the flickering sconces, polished to a mirror sheen despite the traffic of countless feet. The air smells faintly of old wine, candle smoke, and something sour beneath the surface, sweat or nerves, maybe both. People drift between low tables and untouched platters of food, their voices pitched just loud enough to be heard over the hush. A half century of repetition in this white marble cage has dulled their edges, left them draped in silks and boredom alike.

They fill the silence with idle murmurs, never bold enough to name Zudaeshi as the source of the horror, so they name Mulsae instead. The whispers coil through the chamber like threads of smoke.

"Disgusting, what he's doing to her."

"If he flinched even once, I'd believe he still had a soul."

"Another toy for the whore-king."

"She cried all night, they say."

"Why not just kill her already?"

He doesn't look at them. Doesn't flinch. But the murmurs press against his back like stones. He just threads Hanna's leash slowly between his fingers until the loops in his hand are tight enough to sting.

A particularly brave person had approached them earlier and said in syrupy faux sympathy, "Poor thing. She was so graceful on the dance floor." She levelled Mulsae with a glare and continued, "Strange how beauty fades around you," then turned on her heel and walked off.

Now Valena and Maedor are approaching. Mulsae flexes his toes in his boots as he prepares for the inevitable confrontation. It's always a confrontation with these two. They remain simmering with anger because of his original treatment of Damion.

Valena doesn't bother with pleasantries. "Still doing nothing, then?" she says as they stop at the edge of their circle. "Just sitting here while she rots in your shadow?"

Mulsae's voice stays even. "She's not rotting. She's recovering."

Valena tilts her head, voice dry as sand. "Strange recovery. Most people don't need a leash and nightly screams to get better."

Damion shifts beside him, voice low and edged. "Back off, Valena."

Maedor steps in, his tone calm but hard. "She's not wrong, though. If you're not going to do anything, maybe someone else should."

"I am doing something," Mulsae replies, quiet and firm. "I'm keeping her alive."

Valena narrows her eyes. "Alive isn't the same as safe. Or dignified. But maybe that distinction's beyond you these days."

They don't wait for a reply. Valena turns on her heel, and Maedor follows. Their footsteps retreat into the hum of the chamber, leaving Mulsae staring straight ahead, jaw tight.

Mulsae wants to scream. He wants to whisk her away, hide her in some distant corner of the world where Zudaeshi's hand can't reach. But instead he lounges. And Hanna leans on his leg like she trusts it, like it's a pillar and not just a leash. Damion rests beside her like a sentinel resigned to the inevitable.

A sharp clang rings through the chamber. Every conversation dies. A voice, clear and cold, cuts through the silence: "The Harmonarch approaches."

The towering doors groan open. Zudaeshi sweeps into the chamber, her gown a cascade of flame and shadow. Garrick trails behind her, still shackled, face like carved stone, blank in the way only the truly broken manage. They ascend the dais without pause. Zudaeshi settles onto her throne with a languid grace. Garrick lowers himself on the stool beside her like a puppet dropped by its strings.

She surveys the room with an indulgent smile. "My dears," she purrs, "Thank you for attending tonight's little entertainment." A ripple of stiff bows and murmured greetings follows. She waits, savoring the attention.

"Before we begin," she says, resting her elbow on the armrest and her chin on her knuckles, "I thought we might take a moment to see if Garrick has come to his senses." Her smile widens. "Any chance you'd like to confess, my love? Admit you've been lying to me this whole time?" Garrick says nothing. Doesn't blink.

Her eyes flick to the crowd. "No? Pity." She snaps her fingers. "Mulsae. Bring her forward."

Mulsae rises and the trio move through the murmuring crowd with their practiced elegance. He takes a languid pacing to minimize Hanna's limping. Damion stays at the edge of the crowd while Mulsae and Hanna center themselves in the open space before the throne.

Zudaeshi doesn't waste time. "Have you been lying to me?" she asks Garrick, her voice sharp and expectant.

Garrick's reply is immediate and immovable. "No."

Zudaeshi steps down from the dais with quiet menace. She says nothing as she takes the leash from Mulsae's hand. He lets it go. He has no choice. The most powerful Sanctum Master in history, and he cannot help her right now. She leads Hanna up the dais, leaving Mulsae alone in the open. Helpless. Small.

Standing before Garrick, she smiles. "Sit in his lap," she says sweetly. Hanna hesitates, looking from Zudaeshi to Garrick. Slowly, unsurely, she takes a step forward. Garrick exhales and lifts his hands, mechanically, almost tiredly, guiding her under the shackles, between his arms and into his lap.

Zudaeshi coos as she trails her fingers down Hanna's arm. "It must feel so good to be in each other's arms again." She strokes Hanna's shoulder. "You must feel such relief, reunited after your harrowing time here." Hanna stares ahead, silent. Garrick's face remains blank.

She lifts Garrick's hand and guides it down Hanna's arm. "Feel her skin once again. Haven't you missed this?" She pauses and studies Garrick's face for any signs. She finds none.

She smiles again. Too wide. "If you admit you've been lying, I'll immediately let you both return to your quarters. A full night together. Alone." She lifts Hanna's hand and places it atop Garrick's. "Wouldn't that be lovely?"

"Zudaeshi," Garrick says low and steady, "I don't know her."

A muscle twitches in her jaw. Mulsae stops breathing. He knows that look. He puts his hands in his pockets to mask his trembling fingers. He notices Damion shift nervously on his feet.

Zudaeshi draws in a slow, steadying breath. "Allow me to make it easier for you to claim her."

She extends one talon-like nail and presses it just beneath Hanna's right collarbone. With a slow, deliberate motion, she carves a C-shape. Hanna twitches, gives a convincing grimace of pain, but doesn't cry out.

"Zudaeshi," Garrick says, his voice low, "please stop hurting her."

She glances at him. "Admit you've been lying." He says nothing.

She carves another line through the middle of the first, forming a rough G-shape. Another glance. Still nothing. Her lips twitch. Then she returns to her task, carving the angled lines of an A-shape. She watches his face as she works, searching for even the smallest crack. But Garrick's expression remains a mask of marble. With a soft huff, she resumes. Letter by letter, she scores the words into Hanna's chest, just below her collarbones. GARRICK'S WHORE.

When it's done, she steps back to admire her handiwork.

"I've destroyed her value to anyone but you," she says. "You might as well drop the act and claim her. No one else will ever want her now. She belongs to you."

Garrick draws a slow, deep breath. Then levels Zudaeshi with a stare as blank and unmoved as stone. Hanna absent mindedly wipes a tear from her cheek. Mulsae vibrates with fury.

Zudaeshi stares at Garrick's blank face a moment longer, her expression stretched taut. Then her lips peel into something that isn't quite a smile.

"Fine," she breathes. The word is too quiet. Too thin. Too calm. She turns, slow and deliberate, her skirts whispering against the dais. One step. Two. Then—

"Malric!" she snaps the name like a whipcrack. The chamber flinches at the call of the Dungeon Master. She doesn't wait for him to respond. Her voice rings sharp across the throne room, brittle with fury. "Bring the frame. The chains. Hang her by the wrists," Zudaeshi says, voice clipped. "Behind her back." She turns her gaze deliberately to Garrick. "Let her hang backwards. I want him to see her face twist every time she breathes." There's a sick sort of silence as the words settle. Then the quiet shuffle of servants moving to obey.

Zudaeshi doesn't look at Garrick. She speaks to the room instead, loud and false-bright. "Perhaps a long night spent gazing into her suffering eyes will loosen your memory, Garrick. Or maybe you're simply too far gone to recall the things you once touched." She laughs a brittle, humorless sound. Then glides back up the dais, her expression frozen in place.

The silence stretches as the crowd waits, watching for Garrick to flinch, to speak, to react. He does none of those things. Hanna stays perched on his lap like a bloodied doll, her weight barely tolerated, her presence ignored. His hand rests stiffly on her knee. He doesn't move.

Mulsae doesn't speak either. Doesn't dare. He keeps his chin high, his stance elegant, but his stomach coils.

He won't even look at me, Hanna's voice is heard in Mulsae's mind.

He's not strong enough, from Damion's voice.

But you are, Mulsae adds.

Zudaeshi lowers herself into the throne and her gaze drags across the chamber, catching Mulsae still standing in the center like a blade waiting to be wielded. She smirks. "You can go, Mulsae dear. I'll take good care of her from here." Her voice is honeyed, almost kind. That cruelty cuts deeper than any blow.

Mulsae bows, not low, but deep enough to be excused. He doesn't glance at Hanna. Doesn't trust himself to. He turns and walks toward the crowd's edge to regroup with Damion, every step a performance of indifference.

Behind him, Zudaeshi's voice lilts to the throne room, bright as a bell, "Malric! Do hurry up! Let's give our Mountain Master something to gaze upon all night long." A ripple stirs through the gathered people. Damion's fists tighten. Garrick doesn't move.

The audience chamber shifts as servants slip in like ghosts, bearing polished beams and coils of rope. They murmur to each other and begin assembling the rig on the dais, just beside Garrick. A hush settles over the crowd like fog.

Hanna still sits limp in Garrick's lap, her blood cooling where it's soaked the front of her dress. Her head bows, but her eyes remain open. Watching. Enduring.

Hanna's voice slips into Mulsae's mind, Should I ask if he's comfortable?

He closes his eyes, a flicker of admiration rising. Even now, she still thinks of others. *Only if you want him to burst a vein pretending you're invisible.

I don't think he sees me as real at all,* she says. He didn't even blink when she carved into me.

Damion's mental voice is rough. Don't look at him. Look at us. We see you. He adds, more softly, You're surviving this just to spite her, right?

No, Hanna replies carefully. I'm surviving it for you.

Mulsae's heart flips. Their friendship is helping her in a way he never expected. That softness he gave... maybe it hardened her in the right places. He lifts his gaze just enough to catch the rig nearing completion. A horizontal beam is locked into place. Ropes dangle, waiting.

Mulsae rolls his shoulders, steadying himself. Here's the plan. I'll keep the pain muted and keep Zudaeshi occupied. Damion, you watch her shoulders. If they start to overextend, warn her immediately. Hanna, you wear a mask of grimacing concentration. Do you understand?

Understood, from Damion.

Yes, from Hanna.

We can do this, Mulsae says.

We're a team, Hanna answers. It melts his heart.

Yes, we are, Damion adds.

Malric approaches the dais with deliberate calm, like a gentleman asking for a dance rather than a butcher preparing a display. He stops before Garrick and gestures to Hanna, who still sits slack in his lap, her blood soaking the front of her ruined dress.

"Time to rise, my dear," Malric says, his voice smooth, almost cheerful. Garrick doesn't react. Doesn't look at Hanna. Doesn't move.

Hanna doesn't wait for permission. She shifts stiffly forward, lifting the coiled leash from her lap and offering it to Malric without meeting his eyes.

Mulsae speaks into her mind as Malric takes it. When he begins the crank, I'll give you acting instruction to ensure he doesn't overstretch your shoulders.

Understood, she replies.

Malric leads her to the rig at the edge of the dais, just beside Garrick, its crossbeam now fitted with heavy rope and gleaming metal rings. He turns her toward Garrick, gently binding her wrists behind her back, then clips the chain onto her wrist bindings and steps aside to admire his own preparation.

Then Malric starts to crank. Her arms rise slowly behind her as he draws out the show. Her shoulders begin to tilt, tension winding down her spine.

Gasp, Mulsae commands. Hanna gasps.

"Ah, there we go," Malric announces with a grin, glancing to the watching crowd. "Lovely arch forming already."

Stand on your toes, Mulsae says sharply. Now. She obeys, shifting her weight forward, straining to keep her heels from sinking back to the floor.

Grimace and whimper. Don't overdo it.

She whimpers softly, her face tight with pain. The effect is convincing. Murmurs ripple through the crowd.

"And done!" Malric proclaims, securing the chain and stepping back with a flourish. "A fine fixture for the evening, don't you think?"

He unclips the leash from her collar, lets it dangle for a beat, then coils it neatly in his palm. He turns and crosses the dais, descending toward the floor with the same pompous precision as before.

Malric approaches Mulsae and places the leash gently into his hand, as if handing over a scalpel between surgeons. The unclipped leash feels like his connection to Hanna has been clipped. It feels like she is so far away and isolated.

"She's holding well," he murmurs. "Should get a clean three hours before the ligaments start to complain."

Mulsae doesn't look at him. "Noted."

Malric lingers a beat longer than necessary. "I've been refining the tension ratios on reverse hanging setups. Got a few new anchor points I'd love to get your opinion on if you ever wanted to talk craft."

Mulsae's grip tightens on the leash. "Now's not the time."

"Of course," Malric says easily, stepping back. "But if it ever is..." He smiles faintly, respectful. "You know where to find me. My office door is always open for you." He then steps away, vanishing into the crowd with the ease of a person who's always belonged.

Mulsae remains still, leash in hand, heart pounding in his ears. Before him on the dais, Hanna balances on her toes with mechanical focus, her face successfully projecting grimacing concentration.

He doesn't breathe until Damion closes the small gap between them to brush his shoulder against his. Only then does he let the trembling start.