Freya‘s pov.

Darkness. Cold. The air was thick with damp rot, the stench of decay and filth clinging to the stone walls. The dungeons.

I had been here for over an hour. My gown was soaked in blood—some mine, some belonging to the rogues I had torn apart. The wound on my arm had nearly closed, but the gash on my leg still bled sluggishly. Infection was inevitable. I had ripped the hem of my gown into makeshift bandages, but it was useless. If no one treated me soon, I’d rot ...