SOPHIA
The discipline room is small. Sparse. A single chair against one wall. Hooks mounted near the ceiling. A cabinet in the corner.
Crux closes the door behind us.
The click of the lock makes my stomach drop.
"Stand there," he says, pointing to the center of the room.
I move where he indicates. My legs feel unsteady.
He crosses to the cabinet and opens it. Pulls out something long and thin. Leather.
A flog.
He can't be serious.
My breath catches.
"Crux—"
"Five strokes," he says calmly. "One for the mistake. Four for arguing with my mother about it." He turns to face me. "That's fair, don't you think?"
Fair? There's nothing fair about any of this.
"I didn't argue—"
"You made excuses." He steps closer. "You said the vendor told you something. You tried to justify the error i
