Chapter 21 · The Mask of Trash

"Still breathing, are we?"

The Envoy’s boot pressed harder into the small of my back, grinding my chest against the cold, grit-covered stone. I didn’t fight it. I let my breath come in ragged, pathetic wheezes, the kind of sound a man makes when he’s already given up on living.

"He's a waste of space, Envoy," Sela’s voice cut through the air, sharp and bored. "I kept him around to scrub the floors. I didn't think he'd actually survive the night."

"A waste of space that Victor specifically asked for," the Envoy replied. I could hear the smirk in his voice. He shifted his weight, and the heel of his boot dug into my ribs. "He wanted the marrow-stripped trash brought to the capital for... experimentation. Why is he still rotting in your cellar?"

Sela stepped closer. I could smell her perfume—something like ozone and crushed jasmine—mixing with the metallic scent of the damp room. She reached down, her gloved fingers gripping my hair and yanking my head up. Not enough to be kind, but just enough to force me to look at the Envoy's sneering face.

"Look at him," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum.