[Lavinia's POV—Imperial Palace—Dungeon—continuation]
The dungeon gates clanged shut behind us like a verdict. From below came the percussion of leather on flesh—sharp, rhythmic—each crack carrying Caelum's voice up the stone like a raw, ragged hymn.
"Arghh…!"
"Ahhh…!"
Marshi walked beside me, steady and patient as a funeral drum. Sir Haldor fell into step a pace behind, his shadow long against the torchlight. He kept his voice low, but the worry in it was as plain as a wound.
"Your Highness," he said, careful, "if—if he dies under this… the lashes, the poison… it could—"
I didn't look at him.
"Then heal him," I said, each word a slow blade. "Stitch him, stitch him well. Pluck poison from his veins if you must—bring him back to breath with herbs, with heat, with men who know how to mend flesh."
Haldor blinked. "Bring him back…only to—"
"To continue the torture, of course." I finished for him, amusement thin as a razor.
