Sharp pain brings me back. Before I know it, I'm crying out. Then I pause, panting, and then another stab in my back makes me growl in helpless agony. A lash.

I'm being flogged.

"Two," says an unfamiliar voice.

I can't determine where I am, my eyes glued shut with dried blood. I can feel that I'm cold and naked, and my hands are tied up above my head to what feels like a wooden pole. I press my forehead to it, breathing heavily. How many lashes did Hadrian mention? A dozen?

At first, he said a dozen.

Then he doubled the number.

The whip whistles again and I twist and writhe as it burns my skin. The pain in my back is accompanied by the pulsing agony in my left eye and cheek.

"Three."

Only three? How could it only be three?

I brace myself, but it's useless. The lash falls across the earlier scars, kicking the breath out of me. I moan, clenching my teeth. I will not cry out. I will not beg. It won’t help. The order of Prince Hadrian will be carried out anyway.

He would have broken his neck on that staircase, if not for me.

Another flash of pain makes me reel.

I should have let him. Such a stupid mistake. I dumb, brainless instinct of saving a fellow human being. But he's not a fellow human being. He belongs to the family that holds a whole country down under their iron boot. He's an enemy. I will never forget that now. If I survive this, I will have the scars on my back to remind me.

I press my forehead against the pole, preparing for the next explosion of pain. My feet feel weak and if I wasn't tied to the pole, I would have crumbled down by now. I long for the unconsciousness I have been so rudely drawn out of.

The lash cuts into my flesh again, and my vision fills with splashes of white and red.

I try to take my mind off the pain, but each blow brings it back. The man behind me is still counting, but I do not listen anymore. At last, his voice becomes a blur. Then, thankfully, the pain becomes a blur, too. I welcome the blissful nothingness as it carries me away.

I'm not in the dungeon anymore. I'm surrounded by trees. Sunshine trickles through the leaves, and the green forest floor looks soft and welcoming like a cozy bed. I turn around and face the little wooden house with a brown roof. Grandpa is sitting on the doorstep, carving something out of a piece of wood. Grumio stands behind him, watching him as intently as if he was performing a magic trick.

Suddenly, the two of them raise their heads and look at something behind me.

"There they are," says Grandpa, and a wide smile appears on his weathered, wrinkled face.

I turn around and see a man and a woman walking among the sparse trees, leading a donkey burdened with sacks and bags.

Indescribable joy spreads through my veins. It is today—the best day of the year. The day when our parents come and bring us presents and hug us and play with us.

It's our Birthday.

I take off and run to them, Grumio following suit. Mother bends down, laughing, and we run into her open arms. I bury my face in her traveling cloak, breathing in the almost forgotten smell. Father's hand ruffles my hair.

It's amazing to see them again, and already the expectation of the inevitable separation overshadows my joy. I wish they could come more often, and stay longer. This is the seventh time in my life that I see them.

It is also the last one.

"No," says Grandpa.

We break the hug and turn to look where his shaking finger is pointing, and in the distance, we see a group of horsemen appear among the trees.

Pain shakes me again, wrenching me out of an equally painful memory.

Someone has touched my eye, and now the left side of my face feels as if it's exploding. I roar and struggle against my restrains. The cruel hand returns, probing at my eye again, and I try to bite it in my desperation.

"A fighty one."

I remember this voice. It's Lord Mortimer, the tutor I saw speaking to Hadrian on my first day in the castle. What is he doing here?

"I wonder what's gotten into him," he says. "Cassio usually makes his slaves perfectly placid. This one looks positively mad."

"May I continue, sir?" says another voice.

"Well, yes, what else can be done?"

Another lash throws me against my restraints. How many has it been? How long have I been unconscious?

"Too bad," says Mortimer. "He'll be permanently damaged. I don't think I could save his eye. Anyway, let me know when you take him off, I'll have another look."

His footsteps retreat, and the whistle of the lash fills my ears. Despite my resolve, I cry out in pain.

I hate them. My hate is fire, consuming me from the inside, almost overriding the physical suffering. I will make them suffer, too. I will remain in the castle, and I will help Oliver bring that rebellion about, and then, I will add this to the long list of offences they will pay for. Especially Hadrian. I will make him drink every single drop of the agony I'm going through.

Another lash adds a new scar to the patchwork on my back, and I pray for unconsciousness.

I pray in vain.

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