The sound of violent vomiting echoed out as Damon threw up everything he had been forced to eat. He doubled over, his hands braced weakly on the floor while his chest heaved. He scratched at his tongue in a panic, as if terrified the taste of human flesh and organs would cling to his taste buds forever.
There was a tired and hollow look in his eyes. It was as if this single trial had drained his soul away.
Lazarak took a step toward him, hands rising on instinct to help, but he stopped himself and bit his lips hard. His fingers curled behind his back in frustration.
There was a barrier between them.
Damon had not been physically tortured by this trial. It was not like when he had been tossed onto a bed of needles, nor like when he had been burned alive in melted mirrors.
He had not had his tongue pulled out and pierced with spikes. He had not been forced to eat piles of gold, diamonds, money and anything else the trial demanded until his gums bled and his stomach bloated.
