Chapter 3 - The Dove

As the tongue met the lips, they were dry.

Extremely dry.

The nostrils perceived the same bland scent I encountered earlier. The scent was similar, but the sensations through my skin were distinct.

The liquid substance could no longer be felt. No, I was in a seat—an uncomfortable one. Each limb constrained by overlapping pieces of frigid metal.

Whoever had placed me here wanted to portray something specific: "You were to stay here, whether you liked it or not."

What had happened? How did I pass out? What type of monsters were these people?

The sharp awakening released a relentless barrage of thoughts and worries. Worries that would waste time.

"Do you know why the Church takes child Mistomancers?" Father's aged voice continued to resonate from within. "Because only a Mistomancer could take them down."

I scoffed at the distant memory, it was ironic—the same man who had publicly denounced the Church on many occasions had joined them in the end.

Eyes were reluctant to open, but they had to be. Another chance was given, a chance at survival, at freedom.

The room was brighter this time, yet everything else remained disturbingly identical.

A pristine environment accompanied by the same scent, the same layout, and the same whiteness. It was all the same, except for one thing.

As eyes loomed over to the right, the difference became visible. Unconsciously, the mouth began releasing uncontrollable, heavy breaths as the truth revealed itself.

A silver table was in sight, which wasn't a frightening fact. No, it was caused by something different…something malicious.

A silent streak of sweat cascaded down my face as my heartbeat quickened. The metal furniture hosted a collection of tools, ranging in size. A scalpel gleamed under the fluorescent light, not unlike the ones I'd seen in battlefield surgeries—but this time, there was no promise of relief, only the certainty of pain

Anyone could tell what it was. Tools for torture.

There had been a rumor among the mercenaries: "Not only were Doves the esteemed enforcers of the Church…but they were also torturers. An entire legion of individuals that torturered only for sport."

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Thoughts rampaged, legs cramped, ears tensed.

The pounding of the heart and sweat accumulating on the hands echoed through the atmosphere.

But every cell within my body knew that that panic would spell death.

A life of war had taught me well. If survival was the goal, a calm, and focused mind was necessary.

Thunderous footsteps entered the vicinity; a raging tempest of palpable fear and anxiety grew inside.

Calm, quiet, deliberate. I repeated the phrase internally to ease nerves.

My heartbeat slowed, eyes closed; failure had occurred before. It wasn't going to happen again, it couldn't.

"I can't wait to try out some new techniques!" the sadistic man in white announced himself to the room, "Are you?"

The Crow didn't speak or respond, he never did. His mere presence did that.

"Hehe, I know you're awake!" a tremor went down the spine as the Dove spoke childishly, "You're not sneaky you know."

The chills only continued and increased. His closing steps were adjacent to a countdown, foreshadowing my impending doom.

But he stopped, and so did the Crow; noise ceased, apart from the heartbeat. Where he stopped became a problem— pain resonated through the skin as his beak poked into the forehead.

"Wakey, wakey," the psychotic bastard continued his malicious speech. "We're going to have fun today—hehe."

Eyes didn't want to open, wouldn't. But for some absurd reason, an eyelid opened.

He saw. His eyes jolted with happiness—a happiness that could only belong to a madman.

Without reason, the Dove's voice grew stern. "I want him restrained."

Without a verbal response, the man in black obeyed. Once again, the neck was held hostage. His irritated attitude toward this task could be felt through the choke; the grip was unbearable. Intense. Vicious.

The Crow's indistinguishable stench hit like an arrow, suffocating me further.

The Dove remained nearby, his beaked mask continued to press the cheek. "My name is Timothy Sinclair, nice to meet you."

The absurdity of the situation only caused my mind to wander. What was this twisted game of his?

He continued to speak, finally backing away. "Here's the thing. You have been selected for the opportunity of a lifetime!"

He began walking in a circular pattern, like a snake on the prowl.

His playful voice felt like an insult. Rage boiled within. Was my life only valued as a tool, a plaything?

"I truly am grateful for being your first torturer." The wretched Dove continued as he placed his hands on his chest in a heartfelt manner, "But, first things first, tell me your name."

The hold on the neck became a little more bearable. "Xav—Xavier Maxwell."

Fear emanated from my voice; no…it wasn't fear but rather true and utter terror.

"Thank you! Now we will test how durable you are." Sinclair responded, speech slithering akin to a serpent. "Don't break!"

Don't break? This was a supposed enforcer of the Masse Doctrines. A protector. But here he was, torturing a fellow human for nothing but entertainment.

This demon wasn't a fellow human…he was something different. Something far worse.

He stopped his encirclement, having caught his prey. Without instruction, the Crow retreated towards the table of tools.

Blood pulsed tenaciously, followed by the dilation of the eyes, then—the heart sank.

Whatever was about to occur…all I knew was that the Crow's choke was far better.

The Dove let out a discrete yet malicious chuckle as he reached the assortment of torture devices and began.

———————

Somehow he broke me—my mind.

Pain surged and then, as if slipping beneath dark waters, consciousness dulled into a trance where sensations faded.

The Dove's eyes gleamed through his mask with sadistic delight, relishing every wince and gasp. Needles plunged into the side, but the mind floated, detached, beyond reach.

Silence stretched, broken only by the torturer's satisfied hum, a haunting lullaby in the haze of agony.

Time lost meaning, each second stretched into an eternity. The sound of breath, ragged and shallow, mixed with the faint chuckle of the Dove, a grim reminder of his control. Muscles ached, the body a battlefield of pain and despair.

My premonition was correct. Correct without a doubt.

In the end, fury couldn't be found within. I had lost. Lost badly.

Why? Why was a sixteen-year-old mercenary 'selected'?

Such thoughts roamed my mind at a time like this. It also left me surprised how the brain could just depart—disappear from the pain.

After a short while, he stopped. Did he run out of torture methods? Was it out of mercy?

No. He wasn't that type of person.

"Wow, most people just shut down," he said as he set a thumbscrew on the table. "It seems we have a good one on our hands."

Unbeknownst to him, he was right…

The brain had departed, but desire had not. There was still an ember present, a small flare of vengeance.

And death wasn't an option—not until I got what I wanted.