Freya was clutched up in the dungeon, her hands wrapped tightly around her trembling body. Her skin was cold, damp from the stone floor beneath her, and every breath she took came out in shallow, broken gasps. The air was heavy—thick with rot, sweat, and the stench of metal rusted with blood. She had long stopped trying to tell whether it was day or night; down here, time did not exist. Only pain did.

Her hair clung to her face, her lips were dry, and her mind was a whirlwind of exhaustion. ...