The infection didn’t whisper; it screamed in a language made of hot lead and rust.
Selene lay on the iron corner piece of the drainage grate, her body curled into a tight, trembling crescent. The scratch along her collarbone, courtesy of the feral rogue’s jagged fingernails, had gone thick and angry, the skin puckering into a violent, bruised purple that radiated waves of sickening heat up her neck.
Her wrists, raw and weeping beneath the silver-flecked iron cuffs, throbbed in perfect, agonizing rhythm with her heart.
In the absolute black of the lower pit, the boundaries of her mind dissolved entirely. The damp walls of the cistern faded, replaced by the suffocating scent of fresh cedar, expensive seasonal lilies, and the heavy, crushing weight of public humiliation.
The fever had dr
