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“We’ll need some refreshments.”

Idris clicks his heels together and is out of the room.

“My prodigal daughter returns,” Magnar says. A trickle of sweat rolls down my spine as he crouches next to me. Just the way I’ve seen him do in all those nightmares. And just like then, I have nowhere to run. “The Lost Jewel is finally back where I can keep her safe.”

His fingers are nothing more than a whisper on my bloodied face, but the jolt of energy they send heals every single bruise and scuff on my skin. Even my breaths become calm and deep.

“You’ll have to excuse my guards,” Magnar says. “It wasn’t my intention for you to get hurt, but Siro has always been one of my unruliest sons.”

Tears prickle my eyes, but I have nothing to say to that. I’ve come to terms with the knowledge that my father and his sons are a blight on the Usmad, and it’s not the first time I’ve tested its bitterness.

“Follow me, Neylan.”

My father doesn’t stop to check if I do. He doesn’t have to. I’ve seen the bite of the flog on the back of a man who fought for the same cause I do. I just need to survive long enough to save Valdus.

I struggle to my feet and trail after my father, even if each of my steps feels like a burden. I force myself to look at anything but the puddle of blood Siro’s lifeless body still lies in. If I see it, the last thread that holds my consciousness together might snap.

“Take a seat,” Magnar says, yet to take his own place in the gray velvet armchair.

I obey his order without a question, making a show of how uncomfortable the manacles make me. I don’t dare to relax my taut into a string muscles. Not when I might be the next one with a bullet in my brain.

My necklace falls over the collar of my shirt and my father’s eyes drop to it in a flash.

“You won’t be needing this.” His fingers curl over the thin metal and tear it from my neck with a snap.

Tainted with blood of a dead man, offered to me by a guard I couldn’t despise more, and making my skin itch with every breath…I’m still saddened to see Magnar throw the pendant into a fire blazing in the large fireplace.

Any word of protest is silenced by servants flowing into the room, parading with spiced wine, hot tea, platters of steamed vegetables, and candied fruits. No matter the clamor they make during their arrival, I can still hear another group drag the soldier’s body out of the room.

A servant picks up a dish with a floral pattern embedded into the ceramic and piles it up with a bit of everything there is to taste. My father waves her away when she reaches for his plate and fishes a chain of keys from his pocket. He unlocks the manacles only to strap them back on as soon as my hands are back in front of me.

“The Lost Jewel, but not a beloved daughter,” I say and bite my tongue before another retort can slip past my lips.

I’ve expected many things, but not a chuckle. I didn’t expect Magnar to run his hand over the stubble of a beard in such a humane display of fatigue that I have to remind myself that it’s the same man who kills and tortures people whenever they threaten his power.

“This frivolous annoyance to you is just a brief necessity until this conversation is over…and I have my assurances.”

“Another game you’re setting the rules for,” I say.

A smile crinkles the skin around his eyes, and I can’t believe the leniency I’ve earned. It seems I’m unable to stop myself. Or maybe I’m trying to dig a bigger hole for myself until my father throws me back into the dungeons. At least I’d be with Valdus. I’d know if he’s alive.

“Eat, you must be hungry,” he says. It’s not a command, but a suggestion.

I’m tired and hungry, but I don’t think I could stomach even a crumb after everything that has happened.

Magnar picks up the pitcher of spiced wine and fills my glass. “You’ll need the strength for what’s coming.”

“Torture and retribution, you mean?”

My father stops with his empty crystal glass in his hand. When he lifts his gaze, his eyes are burning.

Good. Anger, I can work with.

Magnar fills his glass and sets the pitcher back on the table before he lets out a string of carefully calculated words. “I won’t provide the rebels with a martyr. No matter how misguided they are in their assumption of which side you are on.”

I swallow down a lump in my throat, resisting the urge to rub the tattoo on the back of my neck. If my father wants to play this game with me, I will.

“Who says they are misguided?” I ask, picking up the glass if only to have something to do with my hands.