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The High Prince nodded to Thalon, who stood with his head lowered and that same unusual shadow stretching across the wooden boards below him.

Thalon shifted, lifted his head, and pulled a multi-fringed leather whip from behind his back, dropping it at his side.

Gasps rippled through the valley when he stepped forward, addressing the crowd. “I, General Realmpiercer, and Guardian born to House of the Seventh N, charge High Prince Garrik of Elysian with negligence. By our laws, you are hereby sentenced to fifty lashes. Let this be a reminder of how high a duty we hold to Elysian.”

Fifty.

Garrik outstretched his hand, and Smokeshadows whorled in a small cloud upon his palm. Dancing away to reveal a syringe of glowing white liquid.

Thalon’s face remained a stone wall of displeasure as he tightened his lips and hesitated. But the High Prince gritted his teeth and pushed his hand closer with a demanding expression, forcing Thalon, with somethingfinalflashing in his eyes, to collect it.

With a palm flattened over Garrik’s heart, Thalon suffered a long, pleading, critical glare before he reluctantly plunged the needle into Garrik’s tunic over his death mark.

Smokeshadows raged from the area, attacking and crawling up the syringe until Thalon emptied the contents.

Then they promptly disappeared.

The High Prince never flinched. Instead, he slowly unbuttoned his tunic, rolled his shoulders backward, and peeled the sleeves from his incredible arms.

Alora wasn’t the only one who gasped. The crowd flooded with them.

Garrik’s flesh … his sculpted torso…

Bile burned her throat.

Horrendous …unbelievably barbaric, raised, rigid scars.

Theycoveredhim. Torn into his skin and down from his chest as if a beast had taken considerable pleasure in mauling him. Stab and slash wounds were strewn over his abdomen. Barely a piece of skin left unmarked. And the worst … traveled below the V of muscles at his waistline. Gashes stretched around his ribs and stomach, extending behind him. On the side of his neck laid a single, long scar.

Alora slammed her eyes closed, hoping that she was imagining it. That her mind was playing cruel games of guilt for being the cause of this show. But that horror cascaded to reality as her vision returned and the scars still remained.With fifty more to come.

Garrik tossed his tunic aside, turning to settle himself in front of his sword. His incredibly defined muscles rippled as he dropped his arms to grip the pommel once more.

Nausea rose up from her stomach. The sight of his back … apart from recent, dark purple and crimson bruises, was much the same, yet somehow different.

A High Prince—a face of beauty and perfection—with the body of a despised prisoner.

But it was Aiden’s words that filtered into her racing mind.‘Garrik didn’t decide to do a bloody thing—he carries the scars to prove that. Magnelis is a ruthless High King. Not even his own son can escape his wrath.’

Alora’s eyes scanned the horrific scars.Did Magnelis do this?

She didn’t understand. Not the scars, not why he was allowing his body to be stripped in front of his Dragons when the events from last night were entirely her doing.

Why are you doing this?Despite all the times she despised him observing her mind, she hoped he was listening.This should be me.

Garrik tilted his head slightly, and she glimpsed murky silver looking over his shoulder.

Back at her.

But he said nothing.

Alora’s stomach twisted, wondering how he would feel—how she even felt—about being willing to take his place. To admit such a thing to him.

There was no warning. Thalon’s whip cracked across Garrik’s back, laying reddened welts.

Garrik’s shoulders tensed but stood otherwise motionless, like a stone. The skin on his back quivered. He breathed in heavily, gripping his sword pommel with crushing force. With a graceful glance, Garrik found his general, who hesitated to lift the whip into the air.

Garrik nodded at him, a command to strike again.