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Herrick breathed through the searing pain in his ribs, ignoring the sickly smell of his flesh burning under Baldr's blazing fingers.

"Tell me where your friends are hiding," Baldr ordered, withdrawing his touch as soon as the demand was uttered in the dank cell.

Herrick huffed through the waves of pain, focusing on his pounding heart instead of the memory of her fire. He refused to associate her flames with this sadist.

"Even if I did know, I would never tell you," Herrick forced through his bared teeth before he spat on his torturer.

Blood mixed with his spittle as it landed on Baldr's cheek.

He must have bitten the inside of his cheek at some point because iron and salt flooded his tongue, distracting him for a moment.

Baldr only chuckled and wiped his face with a handkerchief he withdrew from his pocket.

"You will tell me eventually," he said softly, his luminous eyes landing on Herrick.

Drops of sweat ran down Herrick's back as he hung forward slightly, using the last of his energy to stay upright through pure stubbornness.

After Baldr had chained him around his neck like a dog, Herrick's arms were hoisted above his head, and his hands were placed in solid iron.

The metal gloves that were attached to the ceiling fit him perfectly, making him wonder if they had been designed just for him.

The iron nullifying his galder left him exposed for the new Flame General to toy with as he questioned Herrick.

Herrick focused on breathing evenly rather than the pacing General in front of him and the twisting flames that danced at his fingertips. He forced the comparison from his mind before it could settle in him, but with every flicker of the golden flames, he thought of his eldr .

"We've been at this for days already, General," Baldr crooned, placing an uncomfortably hot hand on his sweaty cheek, tapping it a few times. "And still, you remain obstinate. I would be impressed if I didn't have better things to do than spend my time in your stinking cell."

Gods, had it been days already?

Herrick ignored the dip of his stomach as he tried to recall if that was true, tried to remember the last time he had been let down from the ceiling.

His shoulders burned from bearing his entire weight until they became numb and the air in his lungs had become thin.

It had become impossible for Herrick to track time as he had before, imperfect as his system had been.

Scorching heat touched his skin below the jaw; acid had been poured over him, and the skin was now melting away—

Herrick's hoarse scream echoed through the empty halls of the dungeons below the palace, the sound coming from deep within his soul as he couldn't help remembering a flame that had warmed his blood rather than spark the agony that coursed through his body now.

Baldr doused the flaming hand that had been cupping Herrick's jaw. The skin was raw and pulsing as the cool air of the dungeon caressed it. Gods, the cool air made it worse somehow. Baldr chuckled as Herrick's scream cut off into a growl, his chest heaving to calm his raging heart.

"Feel like talking now?" Baldr asked, his tone light as if they were having a conversation over some ale at the local pub. "Perhaps you can tell me about those who have helped you in this city?"

This had become his new line of questioning: who was a rebel in Logi?

Who helped him smuggle out the vitki that had suddenly disappeared from Flame Soldier surveillance?

Helvig didn't know how close he had come to finding the person solely responsible for the evacuation of fellow vitki in Logi.

But Herrick would never give up the pit keeper and his cause— Sigurd did more for Logi's citizens than anyone ever had .

He really didn't know where his friends would have gone to hide. He didn't know if Gunnar was still alive. But Baldr knew this; he only wanted to continue the torture.

All he knew with a deep certainty was that he needed to keep breathing until they came for him. Through all the torture, the burning, the taunting, Herrick knew that his friends would not leave him here to the Flame King even if he hoped they would forget him.

"Despite all the fun we're having, I do need to be on my way," Baldr said, turning away from Herrick and shrugging on his black coat. "The High King is being crowned today, and as his General, my presence is mandatory."

High King? That stirred Herrick from his unfocused state.

"There is no High King," Herrick croaked, his voice raw from his screaming.

Baldr only chuckled again, the sound grating on Herrick worse than any of the horrible things he had done so far.

"There is now."

With that, Baldr left his cell and disappeared down the hall.

Right before the door at the far end of the hall latched closed, a breeze drifted into Herrick's cell and swirled around his wrists.

The soft sound of a lock being clicked open was the only warning Herrick had before his hands were released from the ceiling.

He crashed to the damp floor in a huge heap, his arms too weak to catch him. Herrick's cheek hit the stone floor first, the crack of bone breaking resounding in his ears before blackness overcame him.

He welcomed it.

The throbbing in his shoulders stirred Herrick from his oblivion first, then the pulsing in his cheek. At some point, he must have crawled back to his makeshift cot because the blanket below him scratched at his burnt skin as he shifted.

Herrick cracked his eyes open to see the back wall of his cell.

His confusion warred with his pitiful relief that he was alone as he shifted onto his back, his muscles screaming in protest. Next to him was a tray with the same watery broth and cup of water he had been served for every supper.

The iron band around his throat was still present, but the chain it was attached to offered a bit more freedom than his previous shackles, so Herrick was able to reach for his now cold meal.

When he finished slurping the broth, Herrick turned to move the blanket he slept on to see if he had been able to mark any of the last few days on his makeshift calendar.

He tried not to let the mysterious haze that clouded his memory frighten him, but even as he tried to swallow that fear, he could feel it tightening around his throat like the noose he was destined for.

The corner that hid the scratches in the floor was lumpy like the blanket had bunched up when it was kicked to the corner. When Herrick touched the bulging area, his fingers registered something hidden underneath.

With paralyzed breath and shaking fingers, he pulled the corner of the blanket back to reveal a small, round tin and a torn slip of paper. Written in a neat hand, the note held only three words:

For the burns.

Herrick gingerly opened the tin, the strong scent of aloe vera, comfrey, and lavender reaching him.

Cautiously, he dipped his fingers into the salve and brought the mixture to his chest, where a smaller welt from Baldr's burning fingers had torn through the ink that held the runes for strength in the scales of his dragon tattoo.

Bastard , Herrick thought as he remembered how Baldr had targeted certain runes.

As soon as the mixture touched his mangled skin, cooling relief washed over him like the waters surrounding his home in Veter.

It reminded him of when Herrick tried to escape his duties as a child by swimming in the streams. Trying to spare most of the salve, Herrick treated only the worst burns on his body.

His jaw was the most damaged, the skin still throbbing from the heat Baldr had held to it.

Once he felt he had treated enough of his body to allow it to relax, Herrick's thoughts drifted to what Baldr had said as he departed.

The High King is being crowned today.

So Helvig was crowning himself as High King of Ahland.

With the Bone Dagger, Herrick supposed he could crown himself as whatever the prick wanted.

Curled up tightly into himself, he felt his body break out in a sweat as nausea barreled through him when remembering how brilliantly they had all failed.

His idiotic faith in the gods and their plan had him lead his friends to the Knotted Caverns to retrieve a weapon he thought would help them end Helvig's rule over the Kingdom of Flame.

Herrick thought of his parents and how the Kingdom of Rivers would resist Helvig's proclamation of power over Ahland.

They would assemble their armies—armies he should be commanding—to march on Logi against Helvig.

As far as Herrick was concerned, the treaty between their kingdoms was null and void. His parents would feel the same way.

By crowning himself as High King, Helvig broke the treaty, but by handing him the weapon he needed to do it, Herrick tore it to shreds.

By loving the fiery Heir of Flame, Herrick had broken the treaty.

Wherever the blame went, it started and ended with Herrick's utterly ignorant faith in the gods.

He was the one to blame for the oppression the Flame King would sweep over his country and the war that would plague them all.

Sometime later, footsteps clicked down the corridor, stirring Herrick from a fitful rest. His mind had spun with self-hatred as he tried and failed to find a point in his journey to find the dalkr Hela where he should have made another choice.

Herrick had chosen to go after the weapon, and there had been no convincing him otherwise.

Eventually, he'd drifted into a semi-conscious state where memories of soft, heated skin under his fingers and piercing eyes so dark green they were almost black haunted him.

He had dreamt of her again— how she had moved beneath him when they had finally joined together, how her breathing turned to soft pants as they came together, the way she fueled a desire in him so strong that he nearly became the beast she always called him.