Three hours later, I stood before the cell, a dagger clutched in my hand, its cold weight grounding me. Inside, Ivo was shackled, wrists and ankles bound by thick, unyielding cuffs bolted into the wall. The elegant jacket he’d worn in the woods was nowhere to be seen replaced by a torn black shirt clinging to his chest like a dying breath of dignity.

Fosco entered the cell beside me, a short laugh escaping him as he strapped a gag securely around Ivo’s mouth. “I don’t want his teeth ...