I didn’t stay sitting for long.

  My wrists and ankles were sore and bruised from the way I’d been trussed up and hauled through the streets like livestock so I figured the best thing I could do was get my blood flowing again. Over the years, I’d picked up a few exercises that worked well in small, confined spaces that were perfect for a cell like this.

  I couldn’t recall the official names of the moves, but I remembered the sequence. It started simple: feet shoulder-width apart, hands turned inward. The key, I’d been told, was syncing breath with movement. It kept the mind steady and the blood moving.

  I took a deep breath and raised my hands slowly toward the ceiling. At the peak, I held both the position and my breath for a few seconds before pushing my arms forward in a smooth motion, like unching a ball of air. Then came the turn. Hands pulling wide, body rotating with the exhale. I repeated the process before adding kicks into the ter movements, each more eborate than the st. The flow was like a dance. It was fluid, controlled, and calming.

  By the time I slowed it back down to stillness, I felt better. Not good, but better. The routine did its job. It cleared my head and gave me something to focus on besides my looming sentence. Besides my father’s betrayal. Beside–

  The sound of cpping startled me.

  I turned to see Alicia’s uncle appuding through the cell’s viewing window. A moment ter, I heard keys jangling. The lock clicked, and he stepped inside with a smile that made me uneasy.

  “That was quite the show,” he said casually. “Expins a few things, actually. Did Master Yao teach you that by chance? I hear he’s run some csses at Turnstone Academy.”

  The name sparked a memory. Master Yao. Yeah, that was him. Wore those endlessly yered purple robes that somehow never got in the way, no matter how much he twisted his body into knots. I used to wonder if he could move like that in a full suit of armor.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Always wearing purple robes? That’s the guy.”

  He nodded like we were old friends reminiscing over drinks.

  “I swear he never took them off. I fought with him during a Challenge once. He wore them every single day. Tried to get him some armor halfway through, but he wouldn’t take it. Said it messed with his flow. Crazy bastard put down record numbers of Invaders that week.”

  I nodded back, but didn’t say much. I’d learned a long time ago that when someone in uniform starts acting friendly, they usually want something. They were building a connection, trying to humanise themselves to you. It’s easier to tell a friendly face something, after all. I wasn’t about to let my guard down though.

  Not that he seemed to mind the silence. In fact, he waited with me, a smile on his face. He knew the game, and when he was sure I knew that, he stepped forward and offered a hand.

  “Antonio Santina,” he said. “My niece was the one who brought you in.”

  I took the handshake. His grip was a touch too firm, so I made sure mine matched it. He gave my wrist a good shake before letting go and offering another one of those pleasant-but-measured smiles.

  “A solid grip,” he noted. “Did you know handshakes used to be a way to check for hidden weapons in the sleeve?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You think that ever actually worked?”

  He chuckled. “Only on the particurly stupid ones. Anyone with a brain straps their weapons down.”

  He stepped back and leaned against the doorframe, posture too casual for comfort. It irritated me. Not because I wanted to hurt him, but because there was something off about it. I was a prisoner. A dangerous one. He should’ve been at least a little wary.

  But he wasn’t.

  And that told me something far more important.

  He didn’t see me as a threat at all.

  “What is it you want?” I asked, as uninterested as I could.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I wasting your time?” he replied, cing the words with sarcasm. “Got somewhere better to be?”

  “I hear I’m off to a new hotel,” I shot back, matching his tone.

  That earned a ugh. “Yeah, not sure you’ll like the other guests. But seeing as you’re so eager to get on with it, let’s start with the questions.”

  I stepped back and leaned against the opposite wall, mirroring his casual stance. “Ask away.”

  He didn’t waste time. “Why did you target Rondo Mykov?”

  “His dad runs Brutan House,” I said, drawing my words out slowly like he was the one missing the obvious.

  “And why would you want to go after Brutan House?”

  I scoffed. “I wouldn’t. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t target the House, I targeted the kid. Rondo’s been funting his wealth tely, thanks to the rise of the Wallowhackers. Brutan’s success means more coin, and more coin means their golden boy gets shiny new gear.”

  I kept my tone rexed, like it was all just common knowledge. The best lies had a root in the truth. There were too many witnesses from the train for me to invent something outndish. Better to stretch the facts just enough.

  “If that’s the case,” Antonio said, tilting his head, “why not go after Alicia instead?”

  I shook my head. “Her reputation alone would’ve killed the job before it started. If I’d known she was on board, I wouldn’t have even suggested it.”

  Another subtle twist. I pnted the idea that it had been my pn, but without saying it outright. Just enough for him to tch onto.

  “What about Mattais?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If I’d known he was on the train, he’d have been top of the list. That pompous bastard practically begs for a beating. Honestly, we went after the wrong noble.”

  “So your pn was based on who you most wanted to punch?” he asked, stepping closer, his tone skeptical.

  “Partly, yeah,” I said with a shrug. “Rich kids are always awful. I figured someone would try to stand up to me, so I picked the one most likely to be carrying valuables. Brutan House was the obvious choice. They’d just come into a pile of wealth, and everyone knows people spend big when the money’s new.”

  He stepped even closer, invading my space now. “I don’t believe you.”

  I furrowed my brow. “It’s a real thing. Lifestyle drift? Something like that.”

  He got right in my face. Closer than anyone should ever be unless they’re about to kiss or kill you. I didn’t flinch. Just stood my ground and stared back, doing my best impression of someone who had nothing to hide.

  “Why did you target Rondo Mykov?” he asked again, low and cold.

  I let out a tired breath, looking away as if I was dealing with a child. Then he struck.

  Before I knew it, he’d smmed me to the floor, pinning me by the throat. The world tilted as his grip crushed the air from my lungs.

  “You wanted to hurt Brutan House. Why?” he demanded.

  “I wanted. His. Money,” I choked out, struggling beneath him. His weight was immovable. It was like trying to fight a stone wall. I thought about spitting in his face but stopped myself because I had a feeling it wouldn’t end well.

  He drove a fist into my ribs. Pain bloomed like fire across my side.

  “Don’t lie to me!” he barked.

  “I’m… not,” I wheezed.

  Another blow. The opposite side this time. Sharp and deep, like something had cracked.

  “This was a move against Brutan House. Who ordered it?”

  I shook my head. The next punch nded square on my cheekbone. White-hot pain shot through my skull. I tasted blood.

  “Who put you up to it?” he growled.

  I blinked through the stars in my vision, trying to hold onto some sembnce of crity. “What? Nobody… Why would–”

  I didn’t finish. I couldn’t. The throbbing in my face made it impossible to think, let alone talk.

  Antonio didn’t like my hesitation. Or maybe he just didn’t like me. He drove another fist into my face, this one aimed at my eye. I cried out, curling inward, cradling my head, trying to protect what was left.

  He yanked me to my feet like I weighed nothing.

  I could feel the swelling already. One side of my face was going numb, while the other pulsed with raw pain. My vision was beginning to blur. I could still see him, though. Standing there, perfectly composed, not a hair out of pce.

  “You’re going to tell me the truth,” he said quietly. “Whether it’s now, or after I’ve broken a few more bones is up to you.”

  I didn’t respond.

  I suppose one good thing about being physically tortured was that it could actually stop your ability to talk.

  He dragged me out of the cell, down a dim corridor, and into another room. This one wasn’t like the st. No, it was much worse. A cage with no real walls, just iron bars enclosing a cold stone floor. To the side stood a table lined with instruments, but in the center, there were chains suspended from the ceiling.

  He threw me toward them like a sack of meat and began locking my arms into pce. I struggled, weakly, but between the beatings and the fatigue, my strength had already started to fade. His grip was unrelenting. In seconds, I was bound and hoisted into the air like a sb of meat waiting to be cured.

  Then he picked up a curved bde from the table.

  Without ceremony, he began cutting through my clothes. My tunic went first, then the trousers. He left my shoes on, oddly enough. The second the st thread hit the ground, the punches started.

  “Who helped you escape?” he asked after a flurry of blows to my stomach and ribs.

  “Nobody,” I gasped. “We jumped off a moving train.”

  The next punch cracked a rib, like a stick snapping underfoot. I nearly bcked out from the pain.

  “You escaped multiple ptoons in the Hansen District,” he growled. “You expect me to believe you did that on your own? Have you ever even been to Hansen before?”

  I tried to ugh, but it came out more like a wheeze. “We just climbed fences. Garden hopping, we call it. Idiot soldiers didn’t even check.”

  Another brutal combination. My body hung limp in the chains, barely holding on.

  And still, he kept going.

  Sometimes he’d change the questions, switch tactics. He was trying to wear me down, waiting for me to slip up. But I held on. As much as it hurt, my fear for Morgana and Dillon was greater than anything he could do to me. As long as I kept my mouth shut, they might still have a chance.

  “Who hired you to attack Rondo? Was it the same people that helped you escape?” he asked again.

  “Nobody!” I shouted, blood spraying from my lips, hitting his face. “Why do you keep asking?! Nobody hired us. Nobody helped us. It was a stupid pn. I thought we’d get rich. I didn’t even think anyone would care.”

  I let the hopelessness drip into my voice, trying to sell it. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d finally gotten through to him. His eyes flickered. Just for a second.

  Then he smiled.

  “You’ve done well, Brandon. I’m impressed,” he said, almost casually. “Whoever you’re protecting should be grateful. Unfortunately for you, it’s only going to get worse.”

  He shouted for a guard to bring in a bucket of salt water. I thought it might buy me time, but apparently, they kept it ready. The guard pced it beside the table and turned to leave, but Antonio stopped him.

  “Bring in the rest of the shift,” he said conversationally. “I think our guest here might benefit from an audience.”

  The guard hesitated, then nodded and disappeared. Antonio leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper.

  “Sorry about this,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “But messages need to be delivered. We can’t have people thinking you can attack the Houses and walk away.”

  He walked back to the table and picked up a whip.

  Even through the swelling in my eyes, I could see it wasn’t ordinary. The end glinted with metal, and there were knots tied into the cord. Pain, cruelty, and humiliation woven into every inch.

  People began to filter into the room, gathering just outside the cage. I recognized some of the soldiers from when they had captured me. And then I saw her.

  Alicia.

  She stood expressionless, her face unreadable. But her eyes scanned my body, tracing every cut and bruise like she was taking mental inventory. I couldn’t tell if she felt guilt… or pride.

  I wondered if I would’ve cared, had our roles been reversed. I liked to think I would have. I liked to think I wouldn’t be standing there, silently watching someone be tortured.

  Antonio approached and pushed a leather bit into my mouth.

  The anticipation was worse than anything. I’d never been whipped before, but I’d seen the scars. Heard the stories. Drunken men at the tavern pulling back their shirts to show the sh marks that never faded. They always had the same thing to say about it. All of them. They all said that they could still feel it.

  Now I understood.

  The first strike nded across my shoulder bdes and I screamed into the bit, the sound muffled but raw. It wasn’t just pain – it was so much worse. The sh didn’t hit me, it invaded me. It tore through muscle and nerve and marrow. The beating before this felt like it had been preparation – like my body had been tenderised for what came next.

  And then, with clinical ease, Antonio took the bucket and hurled the salt water across my back and suddenly, it was like the pain had doubled.

  "One!" he shouted.

  I bit down on the leather as the second strike nded. Pain thundered through my body like a drumbeat made of fire. I forced myself to focus on my breathing, grounding myself in the rhythm. Blood hit the floor in slow, heavy drops, trailing toward the drain carved into the stone. Then the salt water came, causing me to hiss as my body convulsed in its chains. My head snapped up, and once again, my eyes found Alicia’s. This time I locked on. Holding her stare.

  If she was so proud to bring me in. So delighted to have kept her precious reputation intact, then she could damn well watch what that glory cost. She would see every inch of it, every sh, every wound. Let her take pride in it.

  "Two!"

  The third sh exploded across my back. I didn’t cry out, not yet. I sucked in air through my broken nose, my breath sharp and wet. The leather in my mouth caught another grunt as salt water followed the strike, stinging like acid poured directly into my spine.

  "Three!"

  It began again. The whip cracked through me, searing skin from muscle. I didn’t know how many shes they pnned to give me, but I prayed it wasn’t many more. I managed to hold the screams in through five.

  That was the limit.

  The fifth one broke me open. My voice tore free, muffled only slightly by the bit. I hadn’t wanted to scream. I’d told myself I wouldn’t, like it would somehow be noble. A final act of defiance. But pain has no patience for pride. And even if it did, what would I gain from it here?

  The bit slipped from my mouth as my head dropped forward. One of the guards stepped in, repcing it with something thicker, sturdier as though they expected it to happen again. He looked at me with a strange compassion, like he thought he was doing me a kindness.

  I didn’t have time to process it. The whip came again.

  And again.

  And again.

  I kept my eyes on Alicia through each shing, daring her to look away. The whip sang, my back screamed, and I screamed with it. After the tenth sh, her mask cracked. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes dropped for just a moment.

  I smiled around the bloodied bit as the whip came down again.

  With each stroke after that, more of the onlookers lost their composure. Some were grinning still, feeding on the violence, but most had begun to shift uncomfortably. Their faces paled. A few covered their mouths. Some tried to look away.

  Antonio wouldn’t let them.

  "Eyes on him!" he barked. “See what happens to people who would attack children.”

  Nobody called out the fact that I was the same age as the people I attacked. That little detail seemed to escape notice as they reluctantly obeyed.

  I watched their discomfort with a kind of dark satisfaction. If I was going to bleed, they could damn well bear witness.

  Antonio whipped with precision. Each strike carved new paths. He moved the sh like a brush over canvas, making sure every inch of my back received its mark. I doubted there was a single patch of skin left untouched by the knotted metal tip.

  Every six shes or so, a fresh bucket of salt water was brought in. Someone always threw it on without warning. The agony of that searing liquid was its own kind of whip. More insidious, more invasive. But I suppose I should’ve been grateful. At least I wouldn’t die of infection. Not yet at least.

  Eventually, it stopped feeling like I had a back at all. Just one massive wound. One endless fire.

  The st number I remember hearing was twenty-eight.

  After that, the world started to tilt and slide. My head lolled forward. My breath came shallow, ragged. The voices around me grew distant, distorted, like I was underwater. I didn’t know if it was blood loss or shock, but sleep came like a tide. Heavy and irresistible.

  I let it take me.

  I had been betrayed by my own father. Shackled. Beaten. Whipped until my skin came off in sheets. Tortured not for truth, but to make a point. A message to anyone who thought they could stand against the Houses.

  Whatever waited on the other side couldn’t be worse than this.