The crack of the whip filled his ears before additional fire lanced across his back. He arched in pain as much as his bindings would allow. His eyes were focused on the flickering flame of the torch that lit the wine cellar. There were no windows, just three flickering torches casting mocking shadows on the wall. His eyes stung with the salt of seawater and sweat creating a film in his vision.
The mage focused on the flame once more, trying to recall the reasons he was angry. His anger increased his powers and if he could flame them high enough, maybe he could find a way out. The crack sounded and his body arched. Someone moaned nearby and it took a moment to realize that the sound had come from him. His entire back felt on fire as the crystal barbed leather left snaking trails of welts and blood.
He forced his thoughts to the lies and betrayals. So many lies had fallen around him, from his own lips. Coming to Silverport was supposed to have been a good thing, a chance to grow into power. The whip cracked again and the pain of the new strike across already welted skin brought a new level of pain and he screamed against the leather in his mouth. How had he come to be here? How had this happened? The darkness threatening, finally claimed him and he sank into the dark comfort of oblivion.