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O RREN HY P ASHKIN scowled at his niece through the bars of her cell.

Freya shifted in the straw, her wrists chained to iron rings. She sat on her legs, curled to one side, her manner unconcerned, almost regal. Her long silvery white hair hung over one shoulder. She seemed to find no distress in her blackened eye or her swollen lip, which still seeped blood after he had cuffed her hard.

She looked upon him with raw disdain.

He eyed her in turn, tapping a thumb against his forehead, considering how best to deal with her continuing insolence.

He failed to see what his cousin ever saw in such a gaunt waif of a woman. He preferred a shape heavier of bosom and hip, like his wife, Hylia. Though of late she had gained so much girth, feasting on the spoils of his position as the king’s high minister, that it had grown impossible to separate bosom from hip.

As such, Orren often sought pleasures in the perfumed alleys of the Meershen district, where whores were shapelier and willing to perform acts his wife would not do—and if she did, he would scorn her for them. He also sought release in Meershen for a more practical reason, one pursuant to his endowment, or lack thereof. Due to Hylia’s size, he could no longer reach that which had been afforded him in the past, though it had already been a struggle prior to Hylia’s new girth.

A part of him wondered if his wife had gained that weight on purpose, to keep him off her. She certainly refused him in all other ways.

Orren stared over at his niece, wondering if he should adjust his tastes to suit his circumstance. Maybe a thinner woman had its appeal. He would test this notion upon Freya when the time was opportune, before she was hung from the prow of the Sharpened Spur. Orren already despised her husband. If he couldn’t bugger the bastard, he would find satisfaction here in this cell.

Back in Bhestya, his cousin continued to pronounce Freya’s innocence on his knees before King Acker, likely willing to suck the royal cock if it would earn his wife any clemency.

Not that she will ever return to Bhestya.

Orren needed to burn this thorn from his side once and for all. He had rid the world of one of his brother’s sons—Geryd—and he intended to end the rest of the line before leaving this damnable desert. He only kept Freya alive as bait for her remaining brother and to entertain the hope of torturing and killing Fenn in front of her. Though in truth, he remained undecided who should die first.

Both had appeal.

“What do you want, Orren?” Freya spat at him. “There’s only so much gloating I can stomach.”

He straightened, his cheeks flushing hotly at her rudeness. To make matters worse, the ship’s quartermaster stood at the door to the brig, bearing witness.

Orren sneered, while fingering the silver medallion hanging from his neck. It rested over his white waistcoat, framed by the wolf-trimmed edges of his cloak. Stamped into the silver was a stylized eye, marking him as Acker’s high minister.

“I’m not here to gloat,” Orren said coldly. “Only to share knowledge.”

“Concerning what?”

“The hunt for your brother is over. They’re trapped by the storm.” Orren looked up, cocking his head to the howl of the sands, a bit of providence that perhaps heralded his righteous efforts in this desert. “They are buried only half a league off. Once the storm lifts, there will be no escape. Not in that lumbering, aged ship. We will be atop them like a mouser on a cornered rat.”

Freya sighed, her eyes casting down, perhaps in resignation. Then she shook her head and lifted her gaze. There was no defeat in that hard shine, only certainty. “Your treachery will be exposed, Orren. Nothing stays buried forever. Look at these ruins we’re hiding in. Eventually the past always pushes out of the dust.”

His shoulders stiffened, knowing he had to be careful with his next words. Only the Spur ’s captain, who was complicit in the betrayal, knew the truth. Venga’s continuing silence had earned him this ship. Orren had also promised the man a position in the king’s council if this venture ended well.

Which is now guaranteed.

With the quartermaster at the door, Orren feigned great umbrage. He puffed out his chest. “Even such vile accusations only prove your duplicity—and that of your brother. Until now, you’ve been spared by my cousin’s love and blindness. But at long last, your father’s traitorous actions will be brought to their just ends.”

Laughter, bright and mocking, burst from Freya.

Orren’s face heated. His hands clenched into fists. “Quiet!”

Freya refused, her body trembling with mirth. “Have you learned nothing, Orren? Do not forget even a cornered rat sometimes kills the cat.”

Orren growled, ready to be done with this matter. He knew words that would silence her. “Mind you, dear niece. Sometimes the cat doesn’t wait for a rat to get cornered.”

She frowned, turning to stare at him with her unblemished eye, one sharp with suspicion.

Orren took this moment to quash any hope. “As the Spur was lowering into the sands, Captain Venga dispatched thirty ra-knights from the ship, the elite of the king’s legions. He cast them off into the desert, under the edge of the storm. With ropes and sand spikes. They’re already crawling beneath the whipping dust to drop atop the other ship. They will be upon them before the next bell rings.”

He enjoyed the look of dismay on her face. All in Bhestya knew the skill, resolve, and ruthlessness of the king’s ra-knights. To a man, each was an armored daemon.

“Unlike the past,” Orren promised, “there will be no escape.”

He turned and strode away, content with the misery he had wrought. Still, he paused, tapping his thumb upon his brow, wondering if this was punishment enough. He decided it was not, especially with her mocking laughter, especially in front of a witness. To reassert himself, he stopped next to the quartermaster and cocked his head toward the cell.

“Go in there and break her arm.”