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I can’t shake the tension in the pit of my stomach.

I say nothing and move to the next cell. A man this time, easily in his thirties. Eyes closed, his nose crooked and crusted with blood. His clothes are torn and stained crimson in so many areas that I can’t tell where his injuries originated. Both arms are definitely broken.

My jaw tightens.

Next cell. Another man, this time in his twenties. Broken, bloody, and bruised. Also unconscious. His leg is broken.

Next cell. A third man, even older. His beard is speckled with gray. The side of his face is awash with bruises and swelling, and it looks like his eye is crusted shut with blood.

A woman is in the next cell, her breathing rough and ragged. Her face is dirty but unharmed, and her feet are bare and bleeding. She’s also pregnant. While I’m standing there, her eyes flutter open, and she coughs against the straw-covered floor. She sees me watching her, and I wait for fear to bloom in her eyes.

It doesn’t. Resignation does. “I figured dying here would be quicker than the fever,” she croaks, then blinks slowly.

Allisander said they were organized, that this was a planned attack, but none of these people look like organized criminals. I wonder if they’re all sick.

“We’ll make sure it’s more painful,” says Allisander. He kicks at the ground, sending a cloud of dust and grit rattling into the cell.

The woman coughs again, then spits blood onto the stone floor. “I figured. You proved that when we surrendered.”

It takes a moment for the impact of that to sink in. I turn and look at Allisander. “They surrendered?”

“Of course. We had a heavy contingent of guards. Once we realized what we were under attack, we were able to corner half of them. Though most were able to escape into the Wilds.”

The woman smiles, blood on her lips. “Thanks to the Benefactors, you’ll see them again.”

I freeze. I remember the shouts during the riot in front of the gates. “Who are the Benefactors?”

Her eyes fall closed.

Allisander slams a hand against the bars. “You will talk.”

She doesn’t.

Allisander inhales as if he’s going to spew more vitriol, but she’s not going to talk, and he won’t be satisfied unless I start creating nightmares to get answers. I’ll do it if I have to, but not for his private indulgence. I head for the next cell. Allisander shuts his mouth and follows. Another man this time. He’s sitting upright in the corner, cradling his wrist in his lap, but his eyes are heavy-lidded. He’s pale and sweating, his breathing a little too quick.

With a start, I realize he’s a man Tessa and I used to bring medicine to. His name is Jarvis, and he has a pretty wife named Marlea. I wonder if I’ll find her in one of the cells. They live in Artis, just outside the Wilds, and he works as a bricklayer while she mends clothes. He’s large and thick with muscle, but he’s also one of the most gentle men I’ve ever met. While most of the people who rely on us for medicine are quick to condemn the king—and me—Jarvis was one who’d always say, “I’m sure the man is doing the best he can.”

I can’t see him attacking a supply run.

Then again, I couldn’t see Tessa sneaking into the palace either.

Tessa. Tension’s grip on my insides grows even tighter. I look at the consul. “If they surrendered, why are they all so heavily injured?”

He cocks an eyebrow, like we’re brothers-in-arms and I’ll find all this amusing. “Does it matter?”

I don’t play. “Yes.”

What I can see of his face turns serious. I want to rip the handkerchief away. “Why?” he says.

“Because I can’t question prisoners who are barely conscious.” I pause. “My guards know that. If someone surrenders, they’re brought to the Hold. Unharmed. Did you give them different orders?”

Allisander hesitates. He’s trying to read my face.

I don’t give him the chance. I look to a guard stationed by the wall. “Stanton. Have the prison doctor treat their wounds. Feed them all. I’ll return late this evening.”

Henods. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Allisander has finally lowered that handkerchief. “You can’t be serious.”