—Three days later— somewhere deep within the cursed lands of the Valley of Specters.
Creak … Creak …
Kazarin dangled miserably, his body swaying in rhythm with the branch above. Tears spilled freely from his eyes, mixing with the blood that seeped from cuts around his wrists and ankles where the rope had bitten into him. The mixture streaked his face in a grotesque mask of red and salt.
It was almost laughable. Just days ago, he had been a noble student of a grand academy, the heir of prestige and privilege. He was free to skip lectures he found boring, to attend only those that pleased him, to walk the neutral planets in comfort, basking in his family name and untouchable status. He could eat what he wished, order servants at will, and speak down to anyone without consequence.
