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Chapter 1056: The Captive

The dungeon was dim. A single candle. The shadow of the woman hanging from the ceiling moved across the stone like a forked tree branch, shifting with every swing.

She did not struggle. She made no sound — or almost none. When the whip landed, a low moan escaped her, and then the next lash drowned it.

“Crack.”

“Crack.”

The candle wavered.

After ten strokes, Earl Lorenzo raised his hand. “Enough. Rest.”

The executioner stepped back.

The prisoner’s back was a map of old marks and new ones. Sweat stood out on her arms and the tip of her nose. Pain was present in every line of her, but she held her voice. Blood moved slowly down from the oldest of the welts.

Lorenzo walked to her and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to his. It was still a striking face. The ordeal hadn’t changed that — if anything the damp skin and the brightness of her eyes intensified it in a way that Lorenzo found both infuriating and unwelcome. “So. You won’t tell me where the Holy Book is.” His grip tightened slightly. “The church is finished, Farrina. Is there any purpose left in your loyalty? If you won’t think of yourself, think of your companions.”

Damn church dregs. The thought moved through him with the familiar heat of old grievance. The entire Kingdom of Wolfheart was available to them — every desolate corner, every abandoned coastal town — and they had picked Archduke Island. He had made himself plain when he executed the messengers: leave him alone. They had a God’s Punishment Army. They could have gone anywhere. Instead they had come for his head.

If Pope Mayne hadn’t given him guards as a precaution — if he hadn’t thought to ask — those same guards wouldn’t have saved him.

He touched the side of his head where his left ear had been.

The battle had cost him more than the ear. Of the twenty God’s Punishment Warriors he had been allocated, fewer than three could still fight. The rest were dead or maimed beyond use. They had been the foundation of his authority on this island. The nobles of Wolfheart obeyed him not because they respected a former bishop’s new title — they obeyed because they feared what stood behind him. If they learned the truth about his losses, the title of Earl would dissolve inside a week.

He needed Farrina to speak.

He wanted to cut her to pieces.

He could do neither.

“I can’t say whether the church is truly over,” said Farrina, after a silence. Her voice was quiet and precise. “But I can say with some certainty that you are, Earl Lorenzo — or should I say, the traitor.” She paused. “You don’t have many God’s Punishment Warriors left, do you? That’s why the Holy Book matters so much. You want what was passed down among the popes — the method of creating more warriors. To keep your small position here on borrowed ground.”

His palm connected with the side of her face.

“Tell me where it is.” His teeth were almost clenched. “Tell me now.”

Blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. Farrina worked her jaw, then said, “I don’t know.”

“Then I suppose your companions will.” He looked at the executioner. “A leg. Choose whichever you like.”

“Stop performing.” Farrina’s voice was weaker but the derision in it was unmistakable. “That finger you sent me last time — the blood had already darkened. A living body stays warm and bright. You took it from a corpse. You killed them when you took the castle, didn’t you? That theatre has already been played, traitor.”

The mask of cruelty faltered.

Lorenzo turned away.

“I’m not even a true acting pope,” said Farrina. “Tucker Thor was the pope. He never told me where the Holy Book was. No one alive knows how to create God’s Punishment Warriors. That knowledge died in Hermes.”

“You’re lying.” Lorenzo’s voice went thin. “Tucker sent you here to rebuild the church. To take revenge against Graycastle. Without the Holy Book, how does any of that happen?”

A sound — something between a cough and a laugh.

“Tucker didn’t send us to rebuild the church or take revenge.” Farrina’s voice had gone flat, almost gentle. “He sent us to leave. He wanted us to find somewhere quiet and live out our lives. The church’s war with Graycastle was already decided. He knew it. The book he left wasn’t instructions — it was an accounting. A history. His last will.” A beat. “He just wanted us to survive.”

“Absurd.” Lorenzo’s voice cracked on the word. “You attacked me. You came to my island and tried to murder me in my own castle. That’s settling down quietly? That’s the acting pope’s mercy?”

“You killed the messengers.” Farrina’s head turned toward him, slowly. “You could have turned them away. You could have ignored us. We would have chosen somewhere else. But you killed them.” The faint starchiness in her voice solidified. “The kind of people I despise most in this world are the ones who betray their oaths for comfort. You failed O’Brien. You don’t deserve whatever life Tucker tried to give us.” A long exhale. “It’s my failure that you’re still alive.”

Lorenzo breathed in. Breathed out.

“I know exactly what you’re doing.” He had himself back under control. “You want to provoke me into killing you. You think if you die, the secret dies with you. But there are instruments in this dungeon that would surprise even a member of the Judgement Army. We know how to take a witch apart.” He looked at her feet. “We’ll start with the toenails.”


He held himself together until he reached the castle hall. Then he threw the tea set against the wall.

The pieces scattered across the stone.

He stood over them.

The cruelty was a mask. He knew it. He hated that it was a mask and that she could see through it. Farrina’s willpower was exceptional — she had spent years in the Judgement Army, where they trained it like a muscle — and she might outlast anything he had the stomach to do. He couldn’t close the port and declare a trade ban without immediately raising the nobles’ suspicions. He couldn’t leave the island without giving the merchants an opportunity to probe for weaknesses. He needed more God’s Punishment Warriors before any of that changed.

And Farrina refused to give him the means.

“My lord.” Hagrid, his butler, appeared in the doorway. He looked at the broken crockery and waited.

“Not now.” Lorenzo turned away.

“I believe it may be relevant to your current problem.”

Lorenzo turned back.

Hagrid was one of the few people on this island he genuinely trusted — a former priest, steady, with a talent for gathering intelligence that made him worth three times his position. He would not interrupt a bad moment without a reason. “What is it?”

“The border of the Kingdom of Dawn has been active lately. Someone is moving toward Cage Mountain.”

“What does Cage Mountain have to do with us?”

“The movement itself is not what matters,” said Hagrid. “The person behind it is.” He paused, with the slight deliberateness of someone delivering a prepared point. “My lord — I have reason to believe it is the King of Graycastle.”

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