Fremilde tried to rise. Valia was already there. A knee to her ribs, a fist to her jaw, each strike deliberate, punishing. Fremilde’s song withered into broken gasps, her once-perfect face a ruin of bruises and blood, her eyes swollen to slits of pitiful light.

“Stop! Stop. I’ll give you anything—anything!”

Valia grabbed her by the hair, yanking her up to meet her gaze. “You don’t own anything to give.”

Fremilde’s hands trembled. “I can serve you—serve the ...