By the time they wheeled him out of the infirmary, Kingston had already forced himself upright.

He wouldn’t be seen leaving prison broken or a shell of himself, not even in a chair.

His bruises still burned from the attack earlier and his ribs protesting every breath he took, but his back was straight and his chin lifted. He moved out of the prison premises with that same elegance.

The guards led him down the long, echoing corridor toward the main gates.

The clang of each door behind him ...