Elder Elias leaned back in his favorite leather chair, the weight of his anger coiling in his chest as he stared at the wretched sight before him. Freya knelt on the cold floor, her body trembling with every sob that tore through her. Her hair, tangled and matted, clung to her tear-streaked face. Her clothes were disheveled and stained with dirt, and her hands clutched at the hem of her tunic like it was the only thing grounding her.

Elias’s lip curled in disdain. How can I even call this miserable creature my daughter? he thought. She was nothing more than a tool, a means to an end. She had...