Hours bled into an eternity. The world narrowed to the sharp, agonizing points of rice digging into her knees, a pain that was not clean and fiery like the brand, but a dull, grinding siege against her endurance. Clara's mind, her last sanctuary, became a fortress under attack. She recited the names of her family, their faces a flickering candle against the encroaching dark. Isadora, Bram, Elias. A mantra of love against a litany of pain.
She did not flinch. She did not weep. She did not give him the satisfaction.
Finally, after a stretch of time that had lost all meaning, Rulien rose from his throne. "The lesson," he announced to the silent, watching room, "is concluded."
With a flick of his wrist, he dismissed her. Two guards moved forward and hauled Clara to her feet. Her legs gave way immediately, refusing to bear her weight. The pain in her knees was a blinding, white-hot nova. A gasp, sharp and involuntary, was torn from her lips.
