The Golden Amulet (PJO, Sequel to The Silver Ring)

Chapter 8

The sound of a slap followed by a stinging pain on his cheek woke Percy up.

He groaned in pain, reaching up to massage his head—which was pounding painfully. His hands, however, despite his tugging, did not move—and upon closer inspection, felt like they were forcefully tied together behind his back. His eyes shot open, and he frantically looked around as he remembered what had happened. Rosaline.

Percy was tied to a metal chair, which was situated in the middle of a drab room. The walls were a simple grey, while the tangy, iron scent of blood filled Percy's nostrils—and it wasn't his.

It was the blood that pooled on the cement of the floor.

"Are you done?" A feminine voice asked him, unamused.

Percy turned forward so fast that he almost made his head whiplash. A woman a few years younger than him was sitting in front of him on what seemed to be the only other chair in the room. Judging by the amount of gold on her crisp uniform and the sword at her waist, Percy figured she was an important figure—not to exclude the fact that two guards flanked her on each side.

He didn't observe her for too long, since his attention was successfully stolen by the cart next to her, on which laid tools for torture: there were corkscrew knives, serrated blades, rusty needles, and a dozen other things he couldn't name nor imagine a purpose for outside of what was obvious the torture room.

"Who the hell are you?" Percy shouted, doing his best not to shy away in fright. He really didn't like to be tortured. He could handle severe wounds, yes, and even poison, but physical, irreparable damage that would result in scars? A bit too much in his opinion. Normally, monsters wanted to kill him and be done with it, which was why he could fearlessly charge into battle without a contingency plan. 

But one always lived from torture.

The memory of the occurrence was always the first one to pop up, even in the midst of a happy celebration—not to mention the scars which would cement those memories in place permanently, working together with everything to generate fictitious nightmares that seemed real . . .

It was a process that Percy was all too familiar with.

Unfortunately for him, the woman noticed his uneasiness. "Don't worry," she told him. "We won't have to resort to such abhorrent measures if you tell us everything. And I mean everything."

"Even the location of my mom's glasses?" Percy asked, unable to help himself. "I hate to tell you, but they're on a different planet."

Perhaps this was why he was always in dire situations; he was so sassy that the planets he traveled on grew a mind of their own and forced fate to move in such a way to kill him.

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "I'm going to get a headache at the end of this. I'm General Aurelia of the 67th Regiment of the Army of Void. You have stumbled upon one of our temporary strongholds."

Schist, was Percy's only thought when she finished, and it was hard to keep calm. If the Army of Void was this active, it indicated that Void was seriously close to reforming. And the last thing Percy wanted was to come face-to-face with the star of the show herself—and it had nothing to do with how she was related to the love of his life. Add on the fact that her right hand lady, Eon, hated Percy's guts, and was as close as anybody could possibly get at being his nemesis.

"I have been tasked to withdraw information from you, by any means necessary," Aurelia told him. "Considering we've had positive identification of the people you were traveling with as elite members of the Army of Chaos, I believe it's an adequate decision."