The work was a burden of bone. The earth was packed as hard as a skull; every strike of the spade jarred up my arm. Sweat cut through the grime on my skin; flies ate at open wounds as readily as at the dead.
But it wasn’t the heat, or the stench, or the bodies that gnawed at me.
It was the talk. The petty cruelties that crawled like lice.
“I heard he snapped and killed his last lover,” one guard spat, voice as flat as flint.
“That one?” another sneered, tilting his head toward me. “They say she took two men at once—had to have both to feel whole.”
My palms tightened on the wood until splinters bit my skin.
And then the final blow—a low laugh, the sort that left a bruise. “Heard his cock’s too small to please any bitch. Maybe that’s why she spread her legs for two.”
Red burst in my vision.
The spade clattered from my hand. I moved before the bastard could blink—as fast as a struck animal. My fist closed on his tunic, and he hit the stone with a crack that rang in my teeth.
Then I was on him. Fists pummeled like iron on iron—each blow tore flesh and sprayed spit and blood. He groaned under me; I could not stop.
Hands grabbed my arms. Voices rose—shouts like breaking rope—but rage drowned them all. I swung at anything that felt in my way, flinging bodies aside as if they were dead wood. Pain screamed in my shoulder where the branding rod had once burned me, but the raw hurt only fed the frenzy.
I wanted his face smashed until nothing human remained.
“Salvatore! Stop!” Lazarus barreled into me, his shout cutting the haze. He shoved at my chest; his eyes were wide, a bright thing between terror and pity.
Guards closed in like wolves, clubs lifted. The blows came fast—ribs, shoulder, skull—each one dropping me further into the dark.
They ringed me where I knelt, breath sawing, blood warm on my tongue.
“Take him to the healer,” one said, voice bored as if giving an order about a broken cart wheel. “Severen wants the trial men alive—not dead. Get him to the infirmary.”
* * *
The moment I saw Amara, something inside me broke.
“Salvatore!”
She ran to me, her arms looping around my neck with the same urgency she’d had as a child—when her touch was the only proof that I wasn’t alone in the world.
Her warmth, her scent—it dragged me backward through time. To nights when she pressed crushed herbs against my bruises, when her hands stitched me back together with nothing but patience. For one breath, I almost believed I hadn’t become what I am.
“What happened?” she asked, already reaching for a clay jar of salve, fingers steady, eyes tight with worry.
“I got into a fight,” I croaked, voice frayed. “The guards mocked me.”
“You can’t let them get to you,” she said firmly, smoothing the balm across my cheek, then my shoulder. The sting cut deep, but her presence dulled it. “They live to provoke—to see if they can make you break.”
I looked away, jaw tightening. “You don’t know what I did, Amara.”
She dipped a cloth into water, wrung it out, and pressed it to the broken skin on my shoulder. Her hands didn’t flinch. “I remember the boy who slipped food out of noble hands just so Lazarus could eat. That’s who I know.”
A low groan scraped from my throat. “Why do you have to bring him up? Every gods-damned time—someone always brings him up.”
Her eyes softened, though her mouth stayed firm. “Because I love Lazarus. He’s the love of my life and your best friend.”
The words tore through me. Something inside me came apart—ragged and violent.
“Why him?” The words scraped my throat as they left it. “Why didn’t you choose me? Why choose a poor boy over me? I could’ve given you the world.”
