My arm flopped forward, stirring me from the escape of unconsciousness. Someone was here, shifting through the space, back and forth, silently.

I floated in and out of awareness, and each time, the person was in a different place.

Working from left to right. Methodically. Curiosity forced one eye open—the other was too swollen to cooperate.

The person stopped and turned toward me. His height and broad shoulders bespoke his gender as well as his square jaw, which was shaven clean. His downturned lips were visible, but the rest of his features were hidden beneath a dark hood pulled low over his face.

His lips thinned to a meager line, and he draped me with a cloth. Then he turned his back to me and continued wiping and storing the instruments in the room. Jotun’s cleanup crew. I couldn’t have done a single thing to protect myself if I tried.

I slipped away into oblivion.

* * *

The putrid stench of feces and sulfur was my first indication I was still alive. But I was warm. I had to be dreaming. Or dead, I thought, remembering the bugs and my torn throat and mind. How could I be alive after that? Were the bugs real? Or did the injections cause me to hallucinate? I shifted and inhaled sharply as I realized I had moved, unrestrained.

Not only was I warm and unrestrained, but nothing hurt. Nothing. Not my face, my skin, or my left hand. I clenched my left hand, it was heavily bandaged, but I could feel my fingers. Someone had tended to me.

I opened my eyes just enough to see I was no longer on the table in the torture room but on a stained mattress on a stone floor, buried in a mound of blankets.

I was alone. At last. The words flashed through my mind before I remembered them as the dying lament of the girl, Madeline. I rested back on the lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling and wondering how much time had passed since Jotun injected me with . . . Horrible shakes raked my body at the memory of the bugs under my skin. They continued for an indiscriminate amount of time in the destitute darkness of my new home.

I was alone.

Mum was gone, and the bit of fight left in me before Jotun strapped me to the table was non-existent now. I could hardly recall I’d had the notion, and I couldn’t remember what it felt like. That piece of myself the girl told me to keep, the place that separated survivors from victims. I didn’t know how to find it or if I had one to begin with.

A tear leaked from the corner of one eye and ran into my hairline and around my skull onto the mattress.

Another followed.

And more, until I was sobbing, face pressed into the filthy mattress to conceal my breaking point as best I could from the other prisoners.

My mother was gone, and I might have killed her.

My mother was gone.

My mother was gone.

Each time the thought circled around, it was more frantic and higher pitched. My chest clenched so tight it hurt as I cried for my mother, and my guilt over leaving her, for the girl Madeline who might’ve been me. For myself because I was not the innocent girl I was before and knew I could never return.

I’d heard stories of Irdelron’s cruelty, but I had no comprehension of his brand of evil. I had no idea such brutality could even exist.

The girl I’d been couldn’t understand it.

Had been.

The girl I was now . . .

I saw the way Irdelron clutched his vial of blood. I now understood the king’s determination for power, no matter the cost or depravity. He’d slaughtered the Drae and the Phaetyn to secure his throne. He drank the blood of the Phaetyn. He enslaved his own people, and reigned with brutality.

But that one person would do such things; that knowledge threatened to overwhelm me. My heart could not accept it.

Staring blankly out of the thick metal bars into the darkness, I sobbed until every ounce of my waking strength was gone.

* * *

The next time I awoke, it was to the clang of metal.

I jerked up, pushing my hands into the bed to lift myself. No more sound came, and I slowly relaxed. I lifted my hand. The bandage had been removed since the last time I awoke, and I stared at my hand in awe in the dim dungeon light.

My jaw dropped. Whoever bandaged me had to be a magician, because my hand was whole, completely unmarred from the stake. I pushed the blankets aside and looked at my legs. I felt . . . so much better.

I glanced around the room, taking it in for the first time. The damp square space was mostly empty. A chamber pot sat in one corner with straw scattered around. The rough floor was dark stone, uneven and jagged. Three of the walls were solid, no windows or breaks to allow for light or ventilation. The air carried the weighty dank stench of wet rock and rat droppings. There was space to take three large steps in each direction. I turned in my bed and faced the last wall. Bars spanned from the rock ceiling to the floor and from wall to wall. On the other side of the bars was a narrow, stone hall.

I stood, my tender bare feet protesting the uneven surface, and my knees buckled as I straightened. The room spun, and I put my hand on the wall beside the mattress to stop my collapse.

Balance restored, I gingerly inched my way toward the front of my cell. As I approached, I noticed a bundle on the ground, a dark rag holding a hunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a flask I prayed was water. I unstopped the cork and sniffed. The sweet smell was foreign to me. The food and water could be a trap, or poison, but neither of those mattered anymore. I took a sip, and a glorious sweetness danced across my tongue, encouraging my thirst to flee.

I had no idea how long I’d been out, but my stomach didn’t even rumble at the food, so I knew I had to be well down the path of starvation. It wasn’t like I’d had fat stores beforehand.

My tummy churned when the fluid hit, but instead of protesting, I craved more. I sipped the fluid and nibbled on the bread, relieved when I kept it down. I stashed the remaining food back in the cloth and wrapped the cloth and flagon in a blanket before depositing it on the corner of my mattress.

I returned to the wall of bars and peered left and right down the hall. I could only see a few feet in either direction. The dark and narrow hall outside my cell extended past my limited vision. If there were other cells, or other prisoners, I couldn’t see them, and I wasn’t foolish enough to call out.

I sighed, both disappointed and relieved to be alone.

“Who’s there?” a scratchy voice whispered from my right. “Is there someone else here?”

I froze, dropping into a crouch.

Who was that?

I inched away from the bars. On tiptoes, I returned to my bed and lay down as quietly as I could.

I waited, tense, ears straining for a long while after. Maybe I hadn’t heard a voice at all. My mind was on edge and probably playing tricks on me. Though, if someone else was down here, they could be one of the three prisoners Irrik mentioned to the king.

I just hoped Arnik and Dyter weren’t captured. My heart ached with the thought, and I hoped against hope they were safe. No one deserved to be in here, except Irdelron and Irrik. And Jotun. I shivered.

I imagine seeing Arnik’s expression when he realized I was gone. He’d be worried sick about me. I probably would have married Arnik when I was eighteen. Not because he had ever kissed me, but because he was the obvious choice. I wouldn’t marry now. I wouldn’t have children. I wouldn’t need to worry about my lack of skill. I wouldn’t live a life outside this place.

In these walls, I would die.

Dyter, he’d be beside himself.

I winced as I thought of him finding out what befell me. Did he know Mum was dead? Had he seen her . . . like that? I hoped not. This was all assuming Dyter still roamed free. I had no way of knowing if the soldiers captured him, too.

Heat sparked in my chest, and the warmth was so stark against the cold inside me that I couldn’t help noticing the emotion.

Defiance.

The urge to protect Arnik and Dyter rose within, the only emotion other than despair I’d had since Mum died.

Madeline’s words about survivors clicked in my mind, and I realized I’d found my corner of necessity.

My corner was my people, Arnik and Dyter. That was where my strength came from. I’d do anything to save my friends. Now, more so, after seeing what would happen to them if they were caught. Jotun’s torture hadn’t dragged their names from my lips, and I was determined to keep it that way, no matter what.

I’d waited too long outside my window the night Mum died. I hadn’t joined the rebels, nor fought the Drae or the king. I’d done nothing. Now, all I could do was keep my lips sealed and not betray Arnik and Dyter. I still had control over that.

The king’s face swam in front of my mind’s eye, my throat tightening as the sensation of bugs scuttled over me, and I saw my earlier error.

Spitting in the king’s face was unnecessary. I’d felt the need to show him what I thought of him, but doing so hadn’t helped me protect anyone or myself. It made him hurt me more, making me less able to protect myself later.

As I lay here, this new world separated into an altered list of what I would and wouldn’t do. I understood what Madeline meant by necessary.

I wouldn’t laugh in his face.

I would bow, even grovel, if required to.

I wouldn’t tell them what happened between Mum and Irrik.

I would lie.

I wouldn’t betray my friends.

I would let the king and Jotun hurt me.

I wanted to be brave, but here, in this damp cell with smatterings of moss, I wasn’t. Bravery was for stronger people, or people ignorant of the things I’d been put through. Being brave was easier before I’d known the depravity in the world.

I pulled the blanket tight, rolling on my side.

Bravery was for someone other than me.

I’d do what was necessary to protect my friends from this fate.