CLARABEL'S POV

Waking up felt like drowning in ice water.

The first thing I registered wasn't a sound or a sight, but the agonizing weight of my own body. My back felt like it had been fused to the mattress with molten lead. Every small, involuntary twitch of my muscles sent a fresh jagged line of lightning through my spine, a reminder of the silver-tipped whip and the man who had ordered it.

I didn't open my eyes immediately. I listened.

The air here was different. In the Moonlit Packhouse, the air always smelled of pine and hearth-fire. Here, the air was sharp and heavy. It smelled of damp stone,...