Bane swung away from the infuriating pity in the girl’s eyes. He remembered well the cosy glow of the Underworld, and the massive, stifling cavern in which the ritual had first been performed. The inner fire had thrown red light onto the tortured stone ceiling from the cracks that crazed the floor. The magma river that flowed under the cavern heated it to an unbearable temperature, but Bane was the only one who sweated. The scars were not self-inflicted. His father had cut the runes into him on his sixteenth birthday. Bane had been chained to a bulbous rock column, his arms spread.
The Black Lord had stood in front of him and warned, “Do not cry out, boy. Only cowards feel pain. You will learn to enjoy this, and do it to yourself. It gives power. Blood must flow, and yours is the most powerful blood of all.”
Bane had panted and ground his teeth, sweat rolling down his face, while his father had cut the runes with exquisite slowness, clearly enjoying every moment of his son’s pain. After that, Bane had been made to do it himself, and he had learnt to bear it.
Mord returned, cringing, and placed a flask and two pots on the table before fleeing again.
Bane smiled, drawing his dagger. “Now we shall see how much you suffer, witch.”