The screams wouldn’t stop.

They tore through the hall like thunder—raw, ragged, alive with agony. Each crack of the whip echoed off the stone walls, followed by the dull sound of flesh breaking under its lash.

Freya could hear them long before she saw him.

“Again,” Kia said calmly.

The guard obeyed. The whip—fifty cords bound together, soaked in oil and dust—slammed across Logan’s back. He jerked but didn’t cry out. Blood ran down his spine, bright against the dirt and ...