Chapter Text
As far as cells went, the ones in Ravenloft weren’t the worst Myla had been in. They were dark and cold, just like most cells, with a dampness that clung to her skin and the stone walls, and instead of bars or an oak door, the entrance was blocked by a door made of iron. But Myla was alone, which counted for something, and instead of a collar around her neck as she was expecting, all they’d bound were her wrists, chained to the back wall. She even had a pallet to sleep on and a bucket for waste. Thoughtful, almost, compared to others she’d been in.
No, it wasn’t the cell or the damp or the cold making her tremble in the corner. Honestly, she wasn’t sure if it was anger or fear, though the latter was more likely.
He’d killed them.
He’d killed all of them.
And for some strange reason, he’d kept her alive.
Myla took a shaky breath and put her head in her hands, the chains on her wrists clinking in the silence, an ever-present reminder of her captivity. She didn’t know what Strahd wanted with her, after everything. Why he’d kept her alive. She’d been almost helpless, watching him tear through her friends and allies as if they were nothing but meat in a grinder, pinned to the ground under a pair of dire wolves. Even with the sword, even with all their bravery, they’d been no match for Strahd’s true power. He’d frozen the river, torn Yosef’s hand off and flung the sword of the Morning Lord away, summoned a horde of vampire spawn and a pack of dire wolves to his side. All with that smug smile on his face, barely even nervous as the party advanced on him. He’d known he would win before he even set foot on the ground before them, and all Myla could do was watch.
And then, once she’d finally slain the dire wolves on top of her and came running at Strahd, rage blinding every other instinct to run, escape while you still can, he had easily dodged her knives and snatched her wrist and hair, and then, before she could do anything, he’d sunk his teeth into her throat.
And that was when panic, true panic, seized Myla for the first time in her life.
At first, she struggled, of course she struggled, but that failed all too quickly, her life draining from her faster than she could kick. The field had quieted but for the hiss of the vampire spawn and the occasional caw of a raven, and Myla’s eyes had begun to close, wondering if this, this was how it would end, or if he’d bury her before nightfall and she’d rise again under his command.
But neither of those happened. Instead, he dropped her to the ground, barely conscious, but conscious, not dead, not dead, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared down at her, a greedy smile on his lips.
Myla could barely move, let alone stand and continue the fight. In the grass not too far away, she could see Yosef’s torn hand, Grover’s lifeless eyes staring into the cloudy sky.
Tears began to prick at her eyes as footsteps slowly approached Strahd von Zarovich.
“You left her alive?” someone asked – a vampire spawn, the hiss in their voice unmistakable.
Strahd simply hummed, keeping his gaze on Myla’s body as she began to slip out of consciousness. “She interests me.”
It was those words that Myla last heard as she drifted into blackness, and those words ringing in her ears when she awoke in a cell.
It’d been several hours.
Enough hours that two meals – meals she hadn’t touched – had been pushed through the bottom of her cell’s metal door, the barest hint of torchlight slipping inside before disappearing just as quickly. Myla stayed in the corner of her cell, curled up on herself, fingers idly brushing the bite mark on her neck.
She could still feel him there if she closed her eyes. His teeth, his tongue, the unnatural chill of his breath. Myla shivered and shook her head, pounding into the wall with the flat of her hand.
“Stop,” she choked out, tears threatening to fall. “Stop, stop, get out, get out, get out.”
But his face wouldn’t leave her mind, so she hit the wall again, and when that didn’t work, she dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and sobbed as quietly as she could.
Yosef. Grover. Nellie. Oz. Every single one of them was gone. She could see Strahd tearing through them like paper puppets, blood and gore and the glassy-eyed faces of death, and all Myla could do was sob.
He killed them, she thought, and dimly, in the back of her mind, she heard footsteps approaching the door. Like it was easy. Like it was fun…
The fact that he’d left her alive made her more terrified than she’d ever admit.
The footsteps stopped outside her cell door, and there was a muffled exchanging of words before a key was inserted into the lock and turned. Myla gasped and immediately moved to stand up, quickly wiping the tears from her face. No way in the nine hells was Strahd going to see her cry. No way. She sucked in a breath and pressed her back into the grimy wall, chains clinking with every movement she made.
The door opened with the dull screech of metal on stone, washing the cell in torchlight. Myla winced, turning from the light as a broad figure stepped inside, and then the door shut behind him, leaving them alone.
Myla looked up, hands clenched into fists, and stared into the face of Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia.
He cocked his head just slightly to one side, the hint of a smile on his lips, almost curious. “Hello, Myla,” he said softly. “I hear you’ve been refusing my hospitality.”
Myla clenched her jaw tight, refusing to say a word, knowing he’d turn anything she said against her. That was how he did things, Strahd. Too intelligent for his own good and trapped in a prison of his own making.
But Strahd simply sighed at her lack of a response and glanced down at the tray of food at his feet. He nudged it slightly with the toe of his boot. “You’ve let this go cold,” he said, returning his gaze to her. “And the meal is rather fine, I believe, especially for a prison meal. Rather rude to let it go to waste. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He was baiting her. Of course he was. Myla grit her teeth and looked away, focusing on a bead of condensation hanging on the wall. Maybe, if she didn’t do as he asked, he’d get bored with her and leave her alone. Let her starve in the dungeons. Maybe, if she was lucky–
“–I’ll kill you myself?” he asked. Myla jumped without meaning to and glanced back at Strahd – his smile was wide enough to see the tips of his fangs.
She swallowed, heart hammering in her chest. How had he-?
“Oh, Myla, you’re smart enough to figure this out,” Strahd said, taking a step towards her. Myla pressed herself into the wall, but she couldn’t go any further. All she could do was watch as he approached. “This can’t be the first time you’ve been in a cell with someone who can read your mind.”
It wasn’t, and as soon as he said the words, the memory came to her. Sixteen and too angry for her own good, tied to a chair with the chief of police and a mage in front of her. It was the first time she’d been put in a cell, the first time she’d been caught since becoming the Raven. And though the police chief wasn’t shy when it came to beating out confessions, physical pain had always been something Myla could endure.
But this…
Strahd tilted his head again, smiling wide, like a cat. “Oh, you have,” he said. He had stopped barely inches from her, his presence alone suffocating. “The Raven, they called you. How fitting. Rebellious, for now, but in time…”
He reached his hand up towards her face, and Myla reacted on instinct, shoving Strahd backwards as much as her chains allowed. It wasn’t far, but he stumbled back, more out of surprise than anything. When he looked at her again, there was amusement in his eyes.
That same head tilt, like a curious parrot. “Not fond of being touched, are we?” he asked.
Myla grit her teeth again. “Get out of my head,” she spat.
“Already there, I’m afraid.”
“Get. Out.”
Something dangerous flashed in his eyes then, and Myla felt the tension in the room shift. Within seconds, Strahd was upon her again, one hand on her chest and the other in her hair, pressing her bodily into the wall. Myla’s breath hitched as he pulled on her scalp, forcing her to look him in the eye.
“Do not,” he said softly, but there was no mistaking the edge to his voice, “presume to give me commands.”
Maybe Myla should’ve been afraid, and she was, a little, but the confidence in his voice, the aura of ownership that oozed out of him wherever he walked, and the memories of her dead friends stifled her fear with rage. She had dealt with people like Strahd before. Not as powerful, not as deadly, but the same brooding confidence, the same ease of ownership that only came to those blessed with a noble life. The same confidence that shattered as soon as someone, anyone, dared to challenge them.
So instead of shrink away, Myla’s mouth twisted into a snarl, and she gathered all the saliva in her mouth and spit it into Strahd’s eye.
He hissed and backed away again, releasing her hair to wipe the spit from his eye. A moment later, the cell door unlocked, and two guards and a dusk elf – Rahadin – burst inside.
“My lord!” the elf said, approaching his master, but Strahd waved him away, wiping his eye. When he finally looked up at Myla, his expression was unbridled fury.
The bravery in Myla’s heart shriveled and died, but she held her ground.
The two guards glanced between Strahd and Myla, and Rahadin did as well, but he, unlike the guards, quickly realized what had happened. In a moment, not just one, but two vicious glares were pointed her way. And Rahadin, she quickly realized, had a whip on his belt.
For a moment, all was quiet, and then Strahd simply closed his eyes and laughed.
“Oh, little half-elf,” he said, his voice echoing off the damp stones. “I am glad I left you alive.”
Something in Myla’s stomach twisted.
“Rahadin,” Strahd said, his voice still bellowing compared to the soft tones he’d used earlier. “It appears I’ve brought a feral guest to the castle. Do teach her some manners.”
And with one final smile in Myla’s direction, he swept himself from the cell, black cloak billowing behind him.
The dusk elf – Rahadin – waited a few moments before snapping his fingers. Immediately, one of the guards shut the door behind him while the other approached Myla. She did her best to get away, but with the chains on her wrists, it was easy for him to grab her and sock her in the stomach. Myla doubled over, coughing, stomach spasming as the other guard joined his friend and grabbed her as well.
A whip cracked, the sound sharp and sudden in the cell, and Myla startled without meaning to and glanced up. All she saw was Rahadin’s waistcoat before he fisted his hand into her hair and yanked her head up until she could see his face.
He was furious, far more furious than Strahd. Myla winced at the pain in her scalp, but she gave him a smile all the same.
“Cheeky,” he said, his other hand going white-knuckled around the handle of his whip. “But trust me,” he whispered, leaning towards her ear, “you’ll come to regret that soon.”
She doubted it. Strahd had already killed her friends. All they could do now was inflict pain.
And Myla was no stranger to pain.
Rahadin nodded, and the guards unlocked Myla’s cuffs, only to produce a pair of new ones from one of their belts. They cuffed her hands in front of her before lifting her up to a hook hanging from the ceiling, stringing her up like a piece of meat. Myla swallowed and tried to control her trembling as best she could – this certainly wouldn’t be fun, but she could handle it. Her bare toes scraped the ground, just enough to put some pressure on, as her shoulders began to stretch uncomfortably. She tugged on the chains holding her up, but everything held firm. It’d be fine. She’d be fine. It would hurt like hell, but she’d be fine.
Rahadin cracked the whip again, and Myla winced, expecting pain. But there was none. Instead he chuckled and gestured his head towards the door, and the guards left.
The sleeves of her shirt had slipped down to her elbows, her hands already starting to go numb. Myla closed her eyes and took a breath, preparing herself for the worst.
She didn’t see Rahadin’s hand fly through the air, so when the crack of the whip was accompanied by a stripe of pain down her back, Myla sucked in a breath, caught unawares.
Rahadin chuckled again, his voice not nearly as commanding as Strahd’s but with more of the malice she’d expected. “Not a squeak, hm?” he asked. “We’ll see if we can remedy that.”
The whip whistled through the air before hitting her back with another crack, and Myla grit her teeth, refusing to make a sound. Rahadin tsked and hit her again. And again. And again. Each time, it got harder to choke down the cry creeping up her throat.
Another whip, another stripe on her back, and then Rahadin sighed and circled to her front, using the hilt of the whip to tilt her face to his.
“Trust me, half-elf,” he said, “it’ll be much easier if you just give in. And I don’t just mean to me.”
Myla gave him a glare, exhausted and pained but a glare nonetheless, but Rahadin just smiled and shook his head.
“You’re a plaything now, little one,” he said. “That’s all. And the sooner you learn your place, the better your life will be.”
He began to circle around to her back, and Myla twisted her face into an ugly sneer.
“You may enjoy sucking his dick, Rahadin,” she said, “but don’t believe for a second I will.”
Silence, for a moment, heavy and thick as sap, and then Rahadin muttered a few quiet words, and he brought the whip down on her back once again.
This time, it burned.
Myla cried out, a choked, sad little thing, but a noise nonetheless, and as she gasped for air, she could almost feel Rahadin smiling behind her.
“That’s it,” he said. “Now, why don’t we finish your lesson.”
When he struck her again, Myla couldn’t help but scream.