74: 74 Survival (AVOT)

74 Survival (AVOT)

TRIGGER WARNING! GORE!0

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Rhain's head pulsed with pain, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Every glance at his mutilated fingers was a vivid reminder of that pain and all the loss of blood, strength and his preternatural abilities.

The room spun around him as he weighed his options. Offering information was a no-go. Even if he feigned cooperation with the hunters, he knew they would become no friends. 

These creatures were dedicated to one purpose: his annihilation. Since the moment Slaine had walked into the room maskless, revealing his identity, Rhain knew the hunters' endgame. There would be no leaving this room alive unless he took action.

What felt like an interminable stretch of time passed before the cell door burst open. Rhain, lying on the stone floor, looked up. The wafting scent of fresh blood invaded his senses, igniting a hunger so acute it felt like a bonfire in his gut. But what the hunters didn't know was that Rhain was no stranger to pain, hunger, or deprivation, but to betray that knowledge would be foolhardy, so he reacted as they expected him to: with uncontrolled desperation.

He lunged forward, eyes reddening, fangs elongating, straining against his chains, as if trying to will himself toward the tantalizing aroma.

"Easy there, bloodsucker. All in good time," the hunter said, his voice dripping with malevolent glee. With calculated slowness, he walked to a chair in the corner of the room, settling down with a jar and cup in hand. Carefully, he poured just a dribble of blood into the cup.

The fragrance permeated the room, clouding Rhain's senses and sending his thirst into agonizing overdrive. Every ounce of his willpower was summoned to maintain focus.

"First things first—Lysander," the hunter prodded.

Rhain clenched his fist around his chains. "Give me the blood first."

"I make the rules here," the hunter retorted, clearly enjoying his power over Rhain.

"I'm not telling you a thing," Rhain hissed back, feigning a measure of resistance to not make it too obvious that he had a plan in the works.

With a smirk, the hunter tipped the cup slightly, allowing a few drops of blood to spill onto the floor, tantalizingly close yet agonizingly out of reach. "You're only making this worse for yourself. Now, where is Lysander?"

Each drop on the stone floor was a calculated torment, intensifying his thirst to near-insufferable levels. But Rhain had a card up his sleeve, and he wasn't ready to show his hand just yet. 

The hunter stood up, sauntering over to set the jar tantalizingly close but just out of Rhain's reach. "I'd hate to have to resort to amputating your toes next," he mused, his voice imbued with malicious delight. "Although, taking you to our research department is an intriguing idea. Your powerful bloodline would yield valuable insights into your kind's weaknesses."

Rhain met the hunter's gaze with a withering glare.

"But you could spare yourself all that. Just talk, and this jar is yours. One little push, and you can satiate your thirst," the hunter coaxed, attempting to break Rhain's will.

Summoning the wild, insatiable part of him, Rhain lunged forward again, straining against his restraints while letting out guttural growls. His act was not entirely a facade; his thirst was nearly overwhelming. But he also knew he had to conserve his strength for what was to come.

"Frosthill," Rhain gasped, feigning surrender.

The hunter's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where in Frosthill?"

Where rogue vampires resided to keep them busy for a while. 

"Blood first!" Rhain demanded.

Satisfying the condition, the hunter poured a small amount into a cup and slid it within reach. Rhain grabbed it and gulped it down, but the meager offering only exacerbated his craving. "This is nothing!" he spat, irritation lacing his voice.

The hunter's lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. "Tell me where!"

"Castlemoor," Rhain conceded.

"Better not be lying. I'll be back to check," the hunter warned. 

Standing up, he deliberately knocked over the jar with his boot. Blood pooled on the cold floor. "There's your reward."

Rhain had anticipated this move. Concealing his internal fury, he stooped down to lap up the spilled blood from the floor, doing exactly what the hunter expected. As the hunter exited the cell with a triumphant grin, locking the door behind him, Rhain bit back his wrath. They would get theirs in time.

Rhain, only slightly strengthened by the recently consumed blood, retreated to refuel. Then his eyes fixed on his mangled hand; it was time for the next step of his plan. 

Positioning his wrist between his boots so that they gripped the shackle tightly, he braced himself for what would be a painful ordeal. With a surge of adrenaline, he began to yank his hand free, ready to endure whatever agony awaited him. A searing pain shot through his wrist, bolts of anguish arcing up his arm like electrical surges. 

His muscles strained, his tendons stretched taut to the breaking point, and his skin chafed against the unyielding metal. Sweat broke out across his forehead, and he had to stop for a moment. His head spun. 

Rhain took deep breaths, and when the pain didn't calm, he decided to just get it over with. Gritting his teeth against the impending pain, Rhain angled his hand awkwardly within the shackle. 

He could feel his bones pressing against one another, the pressure mounting intolerably. Then, with a sudden, savage motion, he flexed his hand inward, exerting force until he felt the sickening crunch of his own bones giving way. 

A guttural scream threatened to escape, but he bit back, sweat prickling down as the pain exploded—a tempest of torment that seemed to drown out everything else. It felt like his bones had not just broken but splintered, each fragment a shard of pure agony. 

For a moment, his vision wavered, darkening at the edges as if threatening to pitch him into unconsciousness. But Rhain willed himself to stay alert, riding out the storm of pain with clenched jaws and bated breath.

Drawing on reserves of strength he didn't know he had, Rhain used his broken, mangled hand to slip through the shackle. Each millimeter felt like a mile, with each nerve ending shrieking in protest as he pulled his crushed hand free.

He had done it. With a mixture of elation and anguish, Rhain cradled his shattered wrist, taking a moment to collect himself. His breath came in ragged gasps, and as he glanced at the shackle, now vacant and lying innocuously against the floor, a fierce sense of triumph surged through him.

They had bound his flesh, but not his will. And soon, they would discover just how grave a mistake that was. Repeating the same process with his other wrist, he was then free.

Grimacing, Rhain tore at his shirt, tearing the cloth into strips with his teeth and feet, careful not to exert too much pressure on his injured hands. Then, as best as he could manage, he began to wrap the cloth tightly around his fractured wrists, improvising a crude but functional splint. 

The cloth absorbed the residual blood and offered some semblance of support to his crushed bones. It was far from a medical treatment, but it would have to suffice.

While he bided his time, Rhain's eyes roved the shadowy recesses of his cell, searching for anything he could repurpose into a weapon. His gaze fell upon the jar that had contained the blood. 

Swiftly and decisively, he shattered it to yield a jagged shard of porcelain. Next, he turned his attention to the rickety chair in the corner, using his weakened but still substantial strength to crush it, extracting a length of wood with a jagged edge.

Carefully positioning himself behind the door, weapons at the ready, Rhain strained his ears for any sound. Minutes felt like hours until, finally, the soft, deliberate footsteps he'd been waiting for grew audible. His muscles tensed, his grip tightened on his improvised weapons, and he focused on his breathing, slowing it down to near silence.

The door hinges protested with a low creak as it swung open. Through the darkened entry, Rhain glimpsed the hunter, who paused, evidently puzzled to find the cell unoccupied. As the hunter took a cautious step inward, his hand inching toward his weapon, Rhain seized the moment. 

With lethal swiftness, he lunged from his hidden position, driving the porcelain shard deep into the hunter's neck before sinking his fangs into his throat. Aiming for the windpipe, Rhain ripped out muscle and tissue before the man could emit a strangled cry. Blood sprayed in a macabre arc, drenching the room in its visceral hue. With a grimace, Rhain spat out the mangled sinew and blood, cautious not to swallow any.

As the hunter's body slumped to the ground in a growing pool of his own blood, Rhain quickly relieved him of his weapons. Now was the time for escape. 

Despite his terrible weakness and mutilated hands, Rhain knew he had to prioritize evasion over confrontation. Stealth would be his greatest ally. 

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