DENZEL
Several years ago,
Tied up to an iron beam with my arms spread far apart, I was in agony. My shoulders felt sore, and my legs were trembling, threatening to give out under me. Forcing my eyes open, I squinted through my right eye, where dried blood caked over my eyelid. My left eye was swollen shut, and my body was too hot for comfort. How long has it been since the ritual began? Six days? Seven? I'd lost count of it.
One would think that being the eight-year-old son of a king would mean that I would be treated with care. But the reverse was the case.
Father had always reprimanded me because of my weakness. But, the moment he noticed that I was no longer the son he used to know, he had me partake in this torturous ritual.
According to the priest, my body had become impure, a
