Here's one, a request I got on the wiki. It's of Brant's POV of the kidnapping in the first book. tw: torture, fire, hinted death (tell me if I should add anything)
Screams.
Loud, awful, piercing screams, mixed with sobs and heartbreaking pleads.
They filled the air, ringing in Brant's ears.
The sound should have made him want to stop. He should've felt guilty, should've felt sick to his stomach. He would have too, a long time ago.
Not now.
Brant shook away his thoughts as best as he could, concentrating on his hands. The heat rushed through his fingers, emerging in bright flames. Warmth filled him for a short while, for a second replacing the cold hollow feeling in his heart.
For years, he had trained for this. He knew that he would have to torture people. He knew sacrifice was necessary.
Because it was.
It was.
It didn't matter that the screams came from a twelve-year-old. One with blond hair, and a bright smile.
One that looked exactly like Jolie, with the exception of her brown eyes.
Like Jolie.
Jolie, who was dead.
The girl was writhing on the ground in pain as flames danced on her skin, beautiful flares of orange doing horrible damage. She cried out in agony, garbled screams echoing in the large cave.
"Please, no!"
Flames. Erupting in the air, red and orange, beautiful.
"Stop!"
Getting thrown back, thrown apart.
"Help!"
Jolie's beautiful face, twisted in terror, flames licking at her, but her eyes only on Brant.
And then just sobs. Heart wrenching, painful sobs.
Fire, obscuring his view, and the next thing he knew, she was gone.
The girl curled on the floor, burns visible on her skin. Muffled cries of pain rang in the air, tears soaking the ground.
Slowly the sobs quieted. Then silence fell over the cave, the only sound being the crackling blazes that slowly died out. The girl went limp.
Brant stopped, holding the fire back. His work was done. The girl was unconscious.
It was over.
Trix walked over to Brant and the girl.
Just the girl. Not Jolie.
Trix prodded the girl with his toe, and then, satisfied she was unconscious, turned to Brant. There was a hollow look in his eyes, one that chilled Brant to his bone. "Fintan should be pleased."
"Is he ever?" Brant muttered, remembering the countless days he'd trained tirelessly, hoping for a slight smile or word of encouragement. Fintan was never happy. Maybe in another lifetime, he would have been, but millennia of hard stares and supervision, of being held back, unable to be himself, it had left its mark on Fintan.
Trix narrowed his eyes at Brant. "What did you say?"
Brant pushed past Trix, unable to answer, and stood in the far corners of the gloomy, dismal hideout. Alvar stood next to him, eyeing Brant's hands warily. Those same hands had once erupted in flames, a threat to the eldest Vacker's handsome face.
Trust and protection in the Neverseen, in the world itself, were nonexistent. They had been replaced with fear and danger a long time ago. Brant had learned that quickly.
Brant stood stiffly, trying to not breathe in too much of the smoky air, trying to not focus on the scent of burned flesh. He stared at the rocky floor, his mind spiraling as it always did.
A hooded figure gracefully glided over to him. "Take care of the boy. I think he might be awake." The words were harsh, despite the sweet voice it came from. Cold icy eyes glinted from under the hood, not a trace of warmth in them.
"Fine," Brant said gruffly. He walked over to the boy who was hardly conscious, wondering how he got here. Was it worth it?
Yes, it was, he decided. It was.
But in the end, it wasn't.
