The air in the dungeon was heavy, cold, and stale — thick enough to choke on. Freya lay curled on the rough stone floor, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. The faint drip of water from the ceiling echoed in the distance, each drop marking another second of her confinement. Her body was weak; she could barely move. The silver shackles on her wrists had burned marks deep into her skin.

At first, she thought it was just the cold making her shiver again. Her body trembled violently, her ...