Fiery agony burned across Thugari's shoulders, setting her senses alight. A grunt from the castle torturer preceded the next lash. Pinching her lips around her protruding tusks helped smother the scream tearing her throat. Another blow split her threadbare tunic and seared her skin. She lost count after her back burned, bombarding her mind with silent pleas to stop. Warm liquid dribbled to her collarbone, the stench of iron stinging her nostrils.

"Enough." Frukag, the captain of the guard, pierced the pregnant silence with a barked command. With blessed mercy, the next blow didn't fall.

Fresh pain ripped through her with each jarring breath.

"Tell us where you hid the locket, Thugari." He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back.

The violence of the gesture clattered his ethnic beads against each other and swayed them across his bare chest. Sharp darts tore at her scalp, calling forth tears, which she blinked away before he could see them. He dipped to meet her gaze, his breath stinking of old ale.

His tribal-marked face mottled red when she remained silent. "Fine. Summon the spellbinder."

She shut her eyes, dreading the soft footfalls of the ancient ether spellbinder serving her father's clan. Despite being human, Uzul was as merciless as Frukag. A breeze stung her bare back. Shivering, she tightened her arms around the stake, clinging to it as if its solid strength could pour into her. The sun began to set, ushering in cooler temperatures. She wouldn't have to wait long for Uzul, not when he had a prior arrangement with the village healer in Bire before the evening meal.

Uzul's hem dragged on the paved stones. His impending brand of torture stiffened her shoulders, sending a renewed rivulet of blood along her collarbone to the front of her tunic. Sweat or blood stained what garments she owned. The rich, royal-blue velvet of Uzul's robe brushed her knees as he stopped beside her. Cold anise-scented air shoved her braid aside and stroked along the rune carved into her nape without his physical touch.

Activating the rune with his air magic summoned her body's memories of past lashings. Blinding agony spasmed through her, and she whimpered, not having the strength to smother the sound. As she slumped against the pole, Uzul's oily mind slithered along hers, probing her recent activities. She didn't fight him, unable to gather the will to do so.

"She's innocent," he said.

The pain ceased, and she bathed in the blessed relief like the sweetness of water after days of thirst.

"Lady Arob witnessed Thugari taking her locket." Frukag kept his voice low.

"I assumed you searched the tower?"

"Of course I did, Uzul." Hatred dripped off Frukag's tongue.

"Mmm, then consider justice served, and release the slave." Uzul's voice dwindled as he glided away with his robe trailing dirt and leaves.

Her ropes loosened, and she slumped then collapsed onto her side to coil around the base of the stake. A breeze fanned her chest. She didn't care if her torn tunic gaped, having exposed herself to the warriors before. As the illegitimate daughter of Chief Varthug, none dared to touch her. Nor was she fit for polite company.

The inner yard emptied. The darkening skies and rumbling thunder heralded a storm and left her without an avid audience. No one came to her aid, not that she expected any. As the rain splattered the sunbaked stones beneath her, she tilted her face to savor the cool droplets on her cheeks. Through those catching on her eyelashes, she gazed at the changing sky from blazing oranges to a haunting dark blue. If she lay still, her back didn't throb, and she could convince herself she didn't ache.

She whimpered, rolling onto her knees. The evening meal and her chores awaited her. Clambering to her feet, she clutched her tunic to her chest and raised her gaze to the impressive white stone façade of Haraton Castle, once a human bastion.

Peering through the stained-glass window, Lady Murzush curled her lips downward and narrowed her eyes. The fading sunlight touched on her clan markings across her bare stomach and behind her guda covering her breasts. With a flick of her gold-beaded braids, she abandoned Thugari to her suffering.

She staggered to the kitchen, hoping to slip through and up the spiraling steps to the broken-down northwest tower. It served as a room of sorts, where the wind pierced the splintered roof and missing mortar to cool her in summer, but freeze her in winter.

Belen the cook wasn't present when Thugari hesitated at the door. Tempted to drop her shoulders in relief, she caught herself in time and wove through the kitchen. Other maids shot her nervous glances as she passed them. Each step jolted her back, but there was nothing she could do and no one to tend to her.

Anger no longer settled in her soul, forcing her to react or vow vengeance. She'd fast learned it worsened her fate. Numbness claimed her emotions, nor did she fear losing her life. Frukag bemoaned her stoicism, that he couldn't discipline someone with whom he couldn't bargain. There was nothing more he could do to her besides kill her. She snorted. Death was a kindness he wasn't prepared to bestow upon her.

She climbed to her room like a decrepit elder, but the breeze sweeping down the steps cooled her damp skin. She shut the splintered door, granting herself a fragile privacy. At the task ahead, she held her temple to the coarse wood while she fought for strength. Peeling the tunic off without skinning her back took all her concentration, with each fiery twinge slowing her movements. Once free, she left the tunic where it fell on the straw-lined floor.

She crushed lavender, rosemary, and mint into her broken pewter jug, swirling the concoction to mix the herbs. On bare feet, she paused in front of the window, missing its glazing. While holding the jug to her chest, she released a slow breath then tilted the concoction over her shoulder to trickle the water down her back. Renewed fire sliced through her. She clamped her hand across her mouth to muffle her screams. Her nostrils flared, and she slammed the chipped jar on the stone windowsill, grabbing the stone to steady her.

Crimson-stained water dripped through the splintered floorboards to the abandoned guard room below where she slept in winter. The kitchen fires penetrated the southeast wall, granting her some warmth. Taking an old but clean cloth, she wrapped it around her shoulders. Biting on a scavenged black root, she rolled her back against the wall. A moan shredded her throat, and she bit harder until her teeth ached.

Not an apology crossed Frukag's wet lips. No healer did he summon. Nor could he take to task the lying bitch who accused Thugari of this theft. They believed her, for they must. The same fate awaited anyone who questioned the word of Varthug's legitimate daughter. Thugari had no rights. Her mother, Nerinai, had arrived on Haraton Castle's doorstep with her dark-skinned child. One look at Thugari's eyes and all knew who sired her.

Chief Varthug Nehrakgu's lineage sported silver-gray eyes, as it had done for thousands of years. His people were once masters of moon magic. None of her father's ancient power or her mother's human heritage had seen fit to bless Thugari with magic. Though, what knowledge she had of magic was meager.

A strange sickness took her mother when Thugari was but five summers old. Varthug welcomed her for appearance's sake but could do no more. Not without his mate, Lady Murzush, giving her permission. As constant proof of her father's blatant dalliance with a dark human, Thugari would die before receiving Murzush's kindness. Over the years, whatever obligation her father may have carried for Thugari had dwindled. Whatever love she might have had for him, he destroyed.

She peeled the cloth away from her lacerated skin and draped it over her rickety bed. After pulling on a clean tunic, she crawled under her bed, nudged a stone out of the wall, and stroked the locket lying there. She smirked. She may not have taken the locket her silly half-sister accused her of stealing, but she had stolen jewelry from Murzush. Frukag and his males never found Thugari's treasure whenever they searched her room. Only the dumbest males served her father.

The soft pad of feet on the wooden bedframe warned her she was no longer alone. She lunged for the intruder, snatching him into her arms, and crushing him against her chest for a cuddle.

Gnash, her rat, squirmed, and she giggled, releasing him. He clambered up her chest to curl into the curve of her neck. She ran a gentle finger from his gray head to his bulbous backside.

"Mmm, you've grown fat." She scratched him under his chin, and he purred, but the moment she dropped her hand, he chirped. "I'm hungry too, little one."

One more moon and she would slip out of the castle, past the gate guards, and into the southern village of Bire. She would travel through the eastern forest, circling around Haraton to head north to Chaosthane. The dwarves might shelter her for a while. They too were powerless and welcomed any creature with the same affliction. The city of Dussoum, south of the Chaosthane Mountains, might serve as a new home. The journey would take eight days, but she could do it.

The accusations were becoming more frequent, and her punishments harsher. Only a fool would remain here and court more suffering.