The viewing room in the Northern Containment Facility was deliberately austere—bare concrete walls painted an institutional gray, recessed lighting that cast no shadows, and a large screen mounted on the far wall that reflected the prisoners' scowls back at them before it flickered to life. Five men and a woman sat rigidly in metal chairs bolted to the floor, their wrists and ankles bound by silver chains that gleamed with a dull malevolence in the harsh light. Benjamin Thorne's jaw clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped beneath his skin, his eyes never leaving the blank screen as the guards positioned themselves at the exits. This was to be today's special torture, courtesy of Duke Christian Lykoudis himself—a viewing of the royal wedding that had taken place just yesterday, a ceremony
