My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
The stone in my pocket felt suddenly too small.
“Y-yes,” I managed. “That’s… that’s my back.”
“Do you know when this photograph was taken?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I-I didn’t know it existed.”
There was a murmur—quieter this time, restrained, disturbed.
“For clarity, this photograph was taken within twenty-four hours of the incident the witness described as the first whipping. Mr. Ransom, does this image fairly and accurately represent the injuries you sustained?”
I looked again.
I’d never seen it from the outside before. From my perspective, it had been fire and white noise and hands gripping my arms too tightly.
“Yes,” I said. My voice sounded far away, but it held.
Another click.
A second image appeared. A different angle. Lower on my back. The marks were deeper there, more concentrated.
My chest ached—not with panic, but with something colder. Grief, maybe. Or shock.
“This next set of images is from what Mr. Ransom described as the second incident—the caning. Pictures were taken in the ambulance and hospital, directly following the FBI raid of the compound.”
The screen changed, showcasing several images of my wounds. I reached up to lightly touch my cheek as I looked at the picture of a bloody gash on it. Other photos showed the wounds on my arms and hands.
I heard a sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the gallery.
“Mr. Ransom, do these photos accurately represent the injuries sustained from the second incident?”
I nodded, then remembered I had to speak. “Yes,” I said, my voice shaky.
“And who inflicted these injuries on you? Please state the perpetrator’s name for the record, as well as point to him.”
I hesitated, just for a moment, then raised my arm, makingbrief eye contact with Father as I pointed to him. “Malachi Ransom.”
The attorney nodded once, then glanced at the judge. “Your Honor, the State requests that the images remain displayed briefly for the jury.”
The judge agreed.
I sat there while they continued to look at the photos of my broken body.
I didn’t curl in on myself. I didn’t drop my head. I stayed upright, shoulders back, hands visible. Just like we’d practiced.
Somewhere in the room, I felt Jace—not his hands, not his voice, just his presence, steady and unyielding, like a wall at my back.
I focused on that.
The images disappeared.
The screen went dark again.
The attorney turned back to me. Her expression hadn’t changed, but there was something firmer in her eyes now.
“Thank you, Elior,” she said. “I know that wasn’t easy.”
