"Yes. Test that old recipe of bone-corroding potion on him. I heard it's illegal now. I'm sure it'll become a lost art one day if we don't practice it."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The voice was calm. It floated through the fog, disembodied, impossible to locate. Somewhere to his left. No—behind him. No—everywhere.
Arzhen had been awake for a while now.
Consciousness had returned to him in fragments. First the cold damp of the earth seeping through his clothes, then the distant ache in his limbs from his undignified collapse, then the slow, horrifying realization that he was not alone.
He could hear them. Voices, multiple, low and reverent. His body remained frozen, his eyes sealed shut behind lids that felt nailed in place.
He couldn't move. He couldn't muster the bravery to wake up and confront whatever tribunal had gathered around his prone form. So he lay there, playing dead, as four voices he couldn't locate debated his fate.
