Prologue
Unfortunately, consciousness returned far too soon.
When I came to, I lay sprawled on my back in my cell. My right hand throbbed in agony. I lifted it to my chest and attempted to wrap my left hand around it, as though the mere act of holding it close might somehow lessen the pain. Sweat clung to my skin, mingling with the dried blood crusted along my fingers. The wound had been hastily wrapped, if it could even be called that. The cloth was entirely soaked through in my own blood.
A fragile and broken voice cut through the haze.
"Your hand…"
I stirred at the sound and turned my gaze toward its source.
She knelt beside me on the filthy stone floor, her hands trembling as they reached for mine. I had been too lost in my own misery to hear her enter. My chest tightened painfully and my tears spilled freely.
Her own tears welled. "What took you so long?" I choked out.
Her expression shattered into one of pure anguish. She leaned forward, wrapping me in a trembling embrace. Her warmth seeped into my frozen skin. "I am so sorry," she whispered. "I am so sorry."
A sob wrenched itself from my throat as I buried my face into her shoulder, my body quaking with the force of my despair. "Please, believe me… I am not a criminal… the soldiers have made a mistake. Please… you must believe me." The words tumbled out in frantic, breathless gasps.
She held me tighter. "Let me see your hand," she murmured. "I brought medicine."
I flinched at her words, instinctively curling in on myself. "No," I whimpered. "Please, no… it hurts too much. Do not touch it. Please."
A silent sob wracked her body, and she cupped my face with gentle hands. "I know it hurts, but I must tend to it," she pleaded. "If it becomes infected… I beg you, let me help you."
For a long moment, I could do nothing but cry. But in the end, I relented. My fingers twitched as I forced my left hand away from my right.
She wasted no time. With hands just as unsteady as my own, she reached into the folds of her skirt, and to my astonishment, began pulling out an assortment of supplies. Gauze, bandages, disinfectant, even a small flask of water. One after another, they appeared as though she had hidden an entire apothecary beneath her gown.
She began to unwrap the soiled bandage. The cloth had adhered to the wound in places, and each tentative tug sent violent shudders through my body. I whimpered, not able to contain the cries clawing at my throat. As the final layer peeled away, her eyes widened, and tears slipped free, tracing silent paths down her pallid cheeks.
Where my pinky should have been, there was only raw, swollen flesh. The wound was jagged and crude. And there, protruding grotesquely from the ruined flesh, was a sliver of bone.
She crumbled.
A sob tore from her lips as she brought my trembling hand to hers, cradling it with a tenderness. "What have they done to you?"
A fresh wave of sobs wracked my body. She pulled me close, her arms wrapping around me as though she could shield me from the horrors that had already come to pass. I felt the erratic rhythm of her heart, the way it pounded as though it, too, grieved.
She worked with care as she cleaned my wounded hand. Despite her gentleness, pain still seared through my limb. Once she had dressed my wound in clean bandages, her hands moved with uncharacteristic haste, gathering the supplies and strapping them back against her thighs as though she feared discovery.
Only then did I notice that her gown was unusually voluminous. She had always favored sleek, effortless fabrics. Yet here she was, adorned in layers of puffed-up silk.
Once everything was hidden, she hesitated before reaching for the discarded, blood-soaked bandages. And then, wrapped the filthy cloth back over the pristine dressing.
"Why are you reusing the old bandages?" My words trembled out.
She stilled. Guilt, sorrow and hesitation flickered across her face. But instead of answering, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to my lips.
I searched her face, seeking answers in the depths of her eyes. "You are here to get me out of this place, are you not?" My weak voice voice carried urgency.
But she hesitated. And then she looked away. A cold, suffocating silence settled between us.
My chest tightened. "Do not tell me… you ordered this?"
She stiffened, her lips parting, but no words came. No reassurance. No denial.
A slow, creeping horror clawed its way up my spine. "You ordered this?" My voice cracked. "All of it? You let them-" I paused, unable to utter the truth aloud.
"There is evidence," she said at last in a broken voice. "It names you as the master of one hundred slaves. Is it true?"
I recoiled. "It is not true! I know nothing of it! I am a victim, not a criminal!"
"Then prove it," she implored, her voice raw with emotion, desperation threading through every word. "Please. Prove your innocence."
My lips quivered. "Tell me, how exactly would you have me do that?"
"Where have you been for the past decade?"
I went still.
The truth hovered at the tip of my tongue, but I could not, would not, say it.
Her expression faltered. And I saw it. The moment my silence became my confession in her eyes. Something inside me shattered.
The echo of approaching footsteps cascaded down the corridor. She tensed, withdrawing so swiftly it was as though she had torn herself from my very being. The warmth that had barely begun to take root vanished in an instant. Her spine straightened, her expression smoothing into that distant, impenetrable mask of indifference, it was as if the tenderness she had shown mere moments ago had never existed at all.
A soldier strode in. His gaze flickered over her. "You-" he began, only to falter as his gaze swept downward, taking in the crimson stains marring the pristine fabric of her dress. His features darkened.
Without hesitation, he strode toward me, seized my arms, rolled me to my front and yanked my arms behind my back with an unforgiving force. A choked gasp escaped my lips as pain lanced through my ravaged hand, the wound throbbing with unbearable agony. My body folded beneath his grip, my sobs escaping.
She did not move.
The soldier sneered as his fingers tightened around my mutilated hand, pressing cruelly against the swollen, tender wound. I screamed. She did not stop him. She did not flinch.
"You wretched filth," the soldier spat.
"Lock the gate. We are leaving," she said, her voice frighteningly composed.
With those words, she turned. Each click of her heels against the stone was another step away from me, another nail driven into whatever foolish hope I still harbored. The iron bars groaned as the cell door slammed shut. My ragged cries echoed down the corridor.