Anne's footsteps echoed sharply in the stone corridor, her boots slapping the floor as she rushed toward the storage room, the weight of her cleaning supplies threatening to topple from her arms. Sweat trickled down her brow, stinging her eyes, and her face burned red—part from exertion, part from humiliation. The acrid stench of urine and feces clung to her, no matter how fresh the garments Cullen had given her or how thoroughly she scrubbed herself clean. She could still feel the judgmental glances and the curled lips of amusement of the Knights. After six years in the barracks, she knew for sure that some form of gossip would follow.
The young woman kept her head down as she darted past groups of Templars and mages as if they could strip her of her dignity entirely if they caught sight of her. No one spoke to her, hopefully too busy with their own duties to notice a red-faced, smelly recruit, but the tension in her chest didn't ease until she reached the heavy wooden door at the end of the corridor. She shoved it open with her shoulder and slipped inside, kicking it shut behind her.
The storage room was dimly lit by a single lantern hanging from a hook on the wall. It smelled of old wood, cleaning solutions, and damp stone. Rows of shelves loomed around her, crammed with battered buckets, stacks of worn rags, jars of soap flakes, and wood ash in unlabeled containers. A mop leaned lazily against one corner, its gray threads fraying like an unkempt beard.
With a frustrated growl, the recruit shoved the cleaning supplies back into their proper places. She stuffed the dirty linens from the Knight-Captain quarters and her filthy recruit uniform into the large sack labeled ‘Dirty Laundry’. Some other unfortunate soul stuck with laundry duty would have to deal with it.
Then, unable to contain her frustration, she drove her boot into the empty bucket, sending it clattering across the floor. A second kick sent a mop head flying, followed by a furious strike at a sack of rags. Her anger only surged with each impact. “Andraste’s burning tits! It couldn’t have gone worse! My first bloody meeting with him, and I… and I…” She broke off, her breaths ragged, the words failing to capture the disaster of the encounter she had long yearned for. “Of all the—!”
Her tirade was interrupted by a startled gasp.
Anne whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat. Standing by the shelves, half-hidden behind a stack of boxes, was a young woman. Her face was round and soft, with wide, startled eyes framed by thick lashes. She was lovely—achingly so—with thick, wavy black hair that just brushed her shoulders. Her robes marked her as an apprentice mage, pale blue trimmed with white, though her figure seemed almost too curvaceous for the modest cut of the garment.
Anne froze, her mouth hanging open for a moment before she managed to scowl. “What are you doing here, apprentice?” she questioned, more harshly than intended.
The young woman flinched. “I—I didn’t mean to intrude,” she stammered, her voice soft and musical. "I was sent here by my teacher, Senior Enchanter Ilara, to fetch some supplies. I didn't realize anyone else was here..."
“Well, I am,” the recruit snapped, wiping her sweaty forehead with the back of her arm. “And unless you’ve also come to watch me make a fool of myself, you can take what you need and piss off.”
But the apprentice didn’t move. Her gaze flicked to the upturned bucket and scattered rags, then back to Anne’s flushed, angry face. “Are you… alright?” she asked gently.
The blonde felt a pang of remorse when she saw the concerned look on the young woman's face. The apprentice had done nothing to deserve being barked at like that. "Sorry. I'm being an arse. Long and horrible day, you know?" she murmured, scratching her nose.
The brunette hesitated but then offered a small, tentative smile. “It’s alright.”
Anne returned the smile. “How about we try this again? I’m Templar-Recruit Anne of Lowtown. What about you?”
The apprentice stepped forward. “I’m Bethany,” she replied, her voice warming. “Bethany Hawke.”
The recruit froze mid-motion, blinking at her. “Wait. Hawke? Are you related to Garrett Hawke by any chance?”
Bethany’s expression shifted slightly, her smile growing wistful. “Yes. He’s my older brother.” Then her face brightened. "Are you an acquaintance of his?"
Anne stared for a moment, disbelief coloring her voice when she finally spoke. “Sort of. Knight Tamlin and I were captured by a maleficar. We were seconds away from being done for—both of us—but then Knight-Captain Cullen showed up and saved us. Honestly, it was all a blur for me; I don’t remember much else. But later, I found out he wasn’t alone. Someone named Garrett Hawke was with him, fighting for our lives.”
Bethany’s brows lifted. “Really? He never mentioned it, but… that sounds like him.” Her smile returned. “He’s always been there for people when it mattered. Or tried to be.”
"I see... It must be nice to have a brother like that," Anne uttered with an undercurrent of envy she couldn’t quite hide. She noted Bethany’s shoulders sag at her words. Of course. Now that she was in the Gallows she would probably never see Garrett again. The silence between them stretched, thick and awkward. The recruit shifted her weight, suddenly hyperaware of every creak of her boots on the stone floor. Say something, anything. Her eyes darted to the shelves. “Uh,” she murmured, raising a hand in an awkward gesture. “You mentioned you needed something from here? Supplies or... whatever?"
Bethany nodded, stepping closer and picking up a small jar of soap flakes. “Yes, thank you,” she said quietly before her tone turned contemplative. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way our lives intersect with others in ways we don’t expect.”
Anne’s lips pressed together in a thoughtful line. “Yeah, it’s kinda weird, considering how big Kirkwall is.” She paused, her gaze settling on the younger woman with quiet curiosity. “So, umm… how did you end up in the Gallows?”
Bethany’s expression darkened slightly, her gaze dropping to the jar in her hands. “It’s… complicated.” She hesitated, then sighed. “Garrett left with the expedition for the Deep Roads a month ago. He wants to find fortune and glory, or at least enough coin to take back our family’s Estate. I stayed behind with our mother and uncle. It was safer for us all that way.” Her voice wavered as she continued, eyes distant with the memory. “Just a few days ago, we were at the market, and I saw a man—a beggar, from the looks of him—lying on the side of the street. He was bleeding profusely from a deep gash in his shoulder, barely coherent. People just walked by like he was invisible, but I couldn’t. I… I couldn’t ignore him.” She swallowed hard before going on. “I rushed to his side and tried to help, pressing my hands against the wound, but I’m no healer. I think I only made it worse. The blood wouldn’t stop, and he started fading fast. So, I used a little bit of magic, just a simple spell, to stop the bleeding. But someone saw me—saw me casting with bloodied hands—and chaos erupted. People started shouting about blood magic, accusing me of something I hadn’t done. Stones came flying at me and my mother. We had no choice but to run straight to my uncle’s home in Lowtown.”
Anne felt her heart race. “What happened then?”
Bethany’s hands tightened around the jar. “The mob came after me. Only the intervention of the Templars stopped the crowd from tearing my whole family apart. Once things calmed down, and after a thorough checkup, those same Knights brought me here.”
Anne nodded mutely, her thoughts heavy as Bethany’s voice broke the silence after a pause. "Do you know how my life is going to be now? In the Gallows I mean." Her tone was careful, almost hesitant. “I’ve only just arrived, but… I’ve heard stories. Terrible ones. To be honest, it’s a little frightening.”
Anne opened her mouth to offer the kind lie she had told so many others, both in the orphanage and in the Circle: It's not so bad. You'll adapt. There are good people here. She had always found solace in giving comfort, even when she didn’t believe her own words. But something twisted inside her, and before she could stop herself, her lips moved, and the truth spilled out instead.
“Life here is harsh. Unforgiving,” she declared, her voice carrying an edge that startled even her. “The Gallows is a prison, after all—not just for you, but for us Templars too.” She glanced at Bethany, whose wide eyes mirrored growing alarm, but Anne couldn’t stop. The words tumbled out, unbidden and bitter. “Sometimes, I resent the mages for existing. Because if there were no mages, there’d be no need for the Templar Order. And if there were no Order, I wouldn’t be stuck here, living this life, serving in this Maker-forsaken place.” She gestured around her, a sharp, jerky motion. “No one would have to live like this.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Anne’s control returned as quickly as it had fled, leaving her stunned and horrified. What had just happened? Why had she said those things? Was it some lingering effect of the blood magic that bitch Idunna had cast on her? No, that wasn’t possible—they’d checked her countless times, assured her she was free of corruption. Maybe she was just exhausted. Yes, that had to be it. All she needed was rest, a chance to sleep, and let this entire wretched day fade into oblivion. Still, the weight of her unwilling confession pressed against her chest, and she looked away, her face burning.
When Bethany spoke, her voice was soft and laden with sorrow. “Sometimes… I wish I didn’t exist either. So my family wouldn’t have to be constantly on the run. So my brother wouldn’t have to fight so hard to keep us safe. So my mother wouldn’t have to worry constantly about my fate...”
Anne’s stomach twisted painfully. Her words—honest but cruel—had made someone already burdened feel even smaller. Tamlin would be proud of her…
“I—” The recruit started, but the words faltered on her tongue. What could she possibly say? She couldn’t admit to Bethany that she had lost control, couldn’t explain the turmoil churning inside her. “I’m sorry,” she muttered instead, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need to get back to the barracks.” Without waiting for a response, she took a step back toward the door, avoiding the apprentice’s gaze.
But before she could take another step, the apprentice reached out, her fingers lightly brushing Anne’s arm. “Wait,” she said softly, her eyes searching the recruit’s face. “Before you go… could you do something for me?”
Anne hesitated, guilt forcing her to stop and listen. “What is it?”
“That man I told you about—the one I tried to heal near the market…” Bethany’s voice faltered slightly, but her expression remained pleading. “I would like to know if he’s still alive. I know it’s bold of me to ask, but considering that my brother helped you in your time of need… could you try to find out? Please?” She hesitated for a moment. “He has short, dark hair, blue eyes, and messy stubble. He was wearing rags, mostly green.”
The recruit swallowed hard, the description searing itself into her mind as if branded by some invisible force. Her mouth opened, the words spilling out against her will once again. “I’ll do it.”
“Thank you,” Bethany uttered, her smile weak but grateful.
Utterly bewildered, Anne pressed a hand to her temple and turned to flee the storage room.
The recruit hadn’t slept a wink the entire night. She twisted and turned on the lumpy straw mattress, the rough fabric of her blanket doing little to soothe her raw nerves. If she’d earned a coin for every time her mind replayed the moment the chamber pot spilled all over her, she’d be wealthier than the Viscount by morning. And it wasn’t just that humiliating memory haunting her—it was also the strange, out-of-body sensations while she’d spoken to Bethany.
When the morning bell finally rang, it felt less like a summons and more like a mercy. Grateful that armor wasn’t yet required, Anne dragged herself out of the barracks alongside the other recruits. She moved in a weary haze, looking even more disheveled than usual. Her hair stuck out in odd directions, and the dark circles under her eyes gave her the appearance of having taken a punch.
Shuffling into the chapel, she scanned the space, hoping to catch a glimpse of Knight-Captain Cullen. She wanted to tell him that she’d return the garments he’d lent her as soon as she’d had the chance to wash them. But he was nowhere to be seen.
The recruit also noted another absence: Tamlin. After a moment, she recalled that he’d been on the night shift and was likely catching up on sleep. That was for the best, she supposed. Still, she couldn’t help but think about how much he’d changed since the incident with the maleficar. Her childhood rival was now somber and jittery. His lewd jokes and carefree demeanor were replaced by grim remarks about the dangers of magic and the weakness of the flesh.
Anne found herself wondering why she hadn’t been affected the same way by the ordeal. When her mind ventured back to the horrors they’d endured, it was always met by a single image: the golden light of her savior washing away the shadows. Perhaps it was this memory that kept the darkness in her heart at bay.
Her musings were interrupted as the service began. Taking her place near the back, Anne folded her hands in front of her and bowed her head as the Chantry Sister began her sermon.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The Sister’s voice was especially dull that day, her monotone delivery sapping the air from the room. The sermon was about duty, selflessness, and the Maker’s promised return—words Anne had heard so many times that they’d lost all meaning. Her head bobbed once, twice, as sleep tried to claim her, but she forced her eyes open just in time to catch a couple of recruits nearby casting glances in her direction. Their looks weren’t kind—disdain curled their lips, and one of them leaned toward the other to mutter something that made them both smirk.
Anne shook her head, trying to dispel the paranoia creeping into her tired thoughts. Maybe it was all in her mind. Maybe she was just imagining—
“Slop Rat.”
The words were soft but unmistakable. Her head jerked up, her gaze darting across the line of recruits. They all stared straight ahead, their faces blank, feigning innocence.
Anne’s fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She could feel the heat rising in her chest, anger simmering just below the surface. Of course, rumors were inevitable—she’d emerged from the Knight-Captain’s quarters wearing his garments and stinking of waste. It was the sort of sight that practically begged for whispers.
But the speed of it all. That the gossip had spread overnight was hard to believe. She pressed her lips together, holding back the sharp retort that danced on her tongue. Confronting them now, in the middle of the sermon, wasn’t an option. She’d wait, letting the words stew in her mind until the service was over. Then she’d deal with it.
When the moment finally arrived, Anne shuffled toward the exit with the others, determined to make the offenders regret their mockery. She wasn’t sure what she planned to do—beat them, perhaps, or at least make them squirm under her glare. She was so intent on their retreating forms that she didn’t notice the outstretched foot until it was too late.
Her toe caught, and she went down hard. Her hands slapped against the cold stone, and pain shot up her wrists and knees. Laughter erupted around her like a wave, sharp and mocking. She heard a high cackle, then a muttered, “Wipe your foot, or you might catch the stink from the wench who wants to be pissed on.”
Her face burned as she pushed herself upright, her palms stinging and her breath coming in furious gasps. She looked around, her eyes darting from one recruit to another, but she couldn’t pinpoint who had tripped her or said the insult. They all wore smug, amused expressions.
One of them, a young woman with a crooked nose and an irritatingly self-satisfied smirk, let out a loud snort.
It was the last straw.
Without thinking, Anne swung. Her fist connected with the woman’s jaw, snapping her head to the side. The smug expression vanished, replaced by shock and rage.
“You blighted bitch!” the woman snarled, lunging at the blonde.
The brawl erupted like a firestorm. Anne’s world narrowed to fists and shouts, a whirlwind of chaos. She dodged the first counterpunch and drove her knee into the woman’s stomach, sending her stumbling back. Someone else grabbed at Anne’s arm, but she twisted free and slammed her elbow into their chin. A surge of triumph shot through her as another recruit went down clutching his face.
But then the numbers caught up with her.
More recruits piled in—three, then four—and Anne found herself overwhelmed. Fists and feet came at her from all directions. She tried to fight back, her hands swinging wildly, but the blows were too many, and soon she was pinned to the ground. Her ribs screamed with pain as a boot connected with her side. She curled into herself, trying to protect her head, but it felt like the entire group had piled on her.
“Enough! Break it up!” a deep voice bellowed.
The assault stopped abruptly, leaving Anne gasping and bruised on the floor. She lifted her head just enough to see a group of Templars striding toward the scene, their faces hard and unamused.
“What in the Maker’s name is going on here?” one of them barked, his glare sweeping over the gathered recruits.
“She attacked us, Sers!” The guy she had hit in the chin piped up, pointing at Anne. “Out of nowhere, she just started swinging!”
“Yeah,” the young woman with the crooked nose chimed in. “We were just leaving the chapel when she went berserk. She’s bloody mad!”
Anne’s body screamed in pain, and the taste of blood was sharp on her tongue as she opened her mouth to protest, “They—”
The Templar nearest her scowled. “Save it, recruit, and get up.” When she didn’t move fast enough, he grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she winced as his grip dug into one of her bruises.
“Take her to the cell,” the other Knight said grimly. “Ser Alrik will deal with her; recruits are his responsibility.”
At his command, she was dragged all the way to the lower floors, where Templar transgressors were kept. There she was thrown roughly into the small, dark chamber, the door slamming shut behind her with a heavy clang.
Anne curled up against the wall, wincing as her bruised ribs protested every movement. Alone now, with only the sound of her ragged breathing and the distant echo of footsteps, she realized just how quickly things had spiraled out of control. And now, all she could do was wait—for Otto and whatever punishment he deemed fit for her.
The Knight-Lieutenant did not take long to arrive. The recruit had barely begun to pace the cold, cramped confines of her cell when the heavy door creaked open, and the tall, imposing figure of the Templar stepped inside. To her surprise, his expression wasn’t the usual mask of disdain or fury. Instead, there was an uncharacteristic softness in his features—something that might have passed for compassion if she didn’t know the man so well.
Anne tried to stand straighter as she opened her mouth to explain. “Ser, I—”
He raised a hand, silencing her with a calm but firm gesture. “No need for explanations, recruit. I already know what happened.” His tone was measured, almost soothing. “And I believe I understand what kind of injustice has befallen you.”
Her heart quickened at his words, relief warring with anxiety. “You… do?”
Alrik nodded, stepping further into the cell. “I’ve been told by reliable witnesses that you were seen leaving Knight-Captain Cullen’s chambers late last night dressed in… let’s say, garments that clearly didn’t belong to you, and—how shall I put this delicately? —reeking of filth.”
Anne’s face burned, her jaw clenching. “There was an accident—”
“Let me finish,” the Knight-Lieutenant commanded, cutting her off once again. “The Knights saw you, and naturally, they drew their own conclusions. It’s only human nature, really, to assume the worst in such… compromising circumstances. And so, rumors of a most disturbing nature have begun to spread fast.”
The blonde felt a knot form in her stomach, a tense, churning unease that tightened with every word. “What kind of rumors, Ser?” she questioned, though part of her wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
“They say the Ferelden, much like his mongrel hound, takes peculiar pleasure in marking things. And you—sharp, calculating, a harlot in all but name—readily offered yourself to sate the Knight-Captain’s obscene appetites. All, of course, with an eye firmly fixed on favors, advancement and other potential spoils of your whoring."
“No! That’s not—that’s insane—that’s not true!” Anne screamed in protest, her voice raw, echoing off the stone walls of the cell. She stepped forward, desperate to explain, to defend herself and Cullen, but before she could get another word out, Alrik moved swiftly. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, painfully tight, and he leaned in, so close she could smell the pungent stench of garlic on his breath.
“Shh, shh, I know,” the Knight-Lieutenant said fervently, his voice low and oily, as if soothing a frightened child. "I know you would never stoop to such disgrace willingly. It’s not you, Anne. It’s him—the Knight-Captain—preying once again upon the naive, the unguarded, the vulnerable." He moved his face even closer. "He forced you, didn’t he? Dragged you into his filth, his depravities."
Anne’s heart raced, panic and anger tangling together in her chest. “No, no, no!” She struggled against Otto’s hold, twisting her shoulders, but his grip was firm. “Listen to me, Ser, please!”
“All you have to do,” he pressed on, brushing aside her protests as though they were inconsequential, “is say it. Admit that Knight-Captain Cullen took advantage of you. Denounce him before the Knight-Commander, and I will see to it—personally—that no more vile rumors tarnish your name. There will be no punishment for your outburst in the chapel either. Just tell the truth.”
"That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you this whole damned time!" she shouted, her patience snapping like an overstretched cord. With a surge of raw frustration, she shoved Alrik hard, forcing him to stumble back, his composure crumbling into startled surprise. "There was no depravity! No forcing! Nothing like that!" she continued, her glare burning into him like a brand. "It was an accident! I spilled the Knight-Captain’s chamber pot on myself while cleaning his quarters! That’s all it was! He didn’t touch me! He didn’t do anything to me!"
Alrik’s surprise quickly morphed into a dangerous, smoldering intensity, and before she could react, his fist drove into her midsection with a force that emptied her lungs in an instant. Pain radiated from the blow as she crumpled forward, her knees giving way.
Yet, before she could collapse, he caught her, his hands disturbingly tender as they steadied her trembling frame. "Don’t you dare take that attitude with me," he murmured, a smile ghosting across his lips like a shadow. His hand lingered just long enough to pat her shoulder, a gesture that felt more menacing than kind, before he stepped back. "But all right," he continued, his tone deceptively calm, "have it your way. I’ll ask you again after twenty lashes."
The recruit’s blood ran cold. She’d seen what even half that number could do to a person. “T-twenty lashes?” she stammered, coughing, her breath still stolen by the blow. The Knight-Lieutenant had punished her for mishaps and failures before, with a harsh beating or night duties in the kitchen, but she had been lucky enough to escape a whipping so far.
“Of course. Ten for starting a brawl in the chapel and ten for going to the Knight-Captain’s chambers without authorization.”
"What do you mean, without authorization? You gave me permission, Ser!" She burst out, her voice rising, gathering strength as disbelief fueled her words. "You told me I could go before the appointed time!"
Alrik’s brow arched with calculated indifference, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I told you no such thing. In fact, no words escaped my mouth at your request."
"But—but you…" Her voice faltered, cracking under the weight of confusion and desperation as she tried to piece together what was happening. Her mind reeled, spinning back to that moment—the Knight-Lieutenant's curt nod, the subtle acknowledgment she had been so certain of. There had been no words, true, but his gaze had met hers, and his head had inclined just so. She was sure of it! Why was he denying it? Was the gesture not meant for her after all? Had she misread him entirely? She felt her grip on certainty slipping, as though she were drowning in the sheer absurdity of it all.
Alrik’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, silkily coaxing, yet laced with menace. “Anne, just stop with the lies. Only truth will deliver you from punishment.”
The recruit felt the ground beneath her steady, a strange relief washing over her. She’d heard those words countless times before, their familiarity almost comforting in their hollow, practiced falsehood. Lies delivered one from punishment, not truth—that lesson had been carved into her long ago, beaten into her by the unforgiving realities of the orphanage. Life in the Gallows had only reinforced it.
The realization struck her with sharp clarity. Alrik, cloaked in the guise of righteous authority, didn’t seek the truth—he sought her submission. He wanted her to betray Knight-Captain Cullen, to smear his name, to watch as the man’s honor was shattered, his reputation destroyed. But whatever this twisted game was, whatever vile manipulation the Knight-Lieutenant thought he could force her into, she would not be a pawn in it.
Something within Anne stirred. It almost rejoiced at the idea of suffering for a cause, of enduring for the sake of preserving her own honor and that of a man undeserving of this treachery. At that moment, she felt strangely unshaken, bracing herself for the torture with grim resolve. “By the Maker and His Bride, I swear I’ve spoken nothing but the truth, Ser.”
Alrik chuckled softly, shaking his head before turning to rap on the door, summoning the Templars who stood guard. He issued his command with chilling detachment, sentencing the recruit to lashes for her transgressions and instructing that the punishment be carried out by him immediately. Without another word, he strode out of the cell.
Anne’s heart pounded in her chest as the Knights hauled her after Alrik, dragging her toward the whipping post in the adjacent chamber. Her legs struggled to keep pace with the Templars, her steps faltering under their relentless grip.
The chamber, brightly lit by torches, reeked of sweat and blood, its oppressive air a disturbing echo of Idunna’s cellar. The recruit barely had time to process her surroundings before rough hands yanked her tunic over her head, leaving her bruised and battered torso exposed to the icy air and the leering eyes of the Knights. Her skin prickled under the chill, and she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, a futile attempt at shielding herself, before the Templars seized her wrists. They pulled her arms upward, binding them to the post with thick, coarse ropes.
As they finished, Alrik dismissed the two Knights with a wave of his hand. They obeyed without hesitation, filing out of the room and closing the door behind them, leaving Anne alone with the Knight-Lieutenant.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him stride to a small storage chest near the wall, where the tools of punishment were kept. He opened it and withdrew a leather whip, uncoiling it with practiced ease. The sight of it sent a bolt of terror through her, but she steeled herself, refusing to flinch.
“Do you know,” he said softly, his voice low and reverent, “there are few things more gratifying than the truth being ripped from a liar’s mouth?” He grinned as he approached, the whip trailing behind him like a serpent.
Anne clenched her teeth, forcing herself to breathe through the rising panic. She had endured beatings before—many, in fact. She knew the drill. All she had to do was hold on, just endure until it was over.
But the first strike came without warning, and no amount of mental preparation could dull the pain. She gasped, her body jerking against the ropes holding her in place as the searing agony burned a path down her spine. Warmth bloomed where her skin split, blood trickling in thin, hot rivulets.
The second strike followed, then the third, each one tearing deeper into her resolve. The whip bit mercilessly, each lash drawing a moan, a shudder, a sharp intake of breath. The pain quickly blurred into something unbearable—raw, consuming, and endless. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste blood, determined not to give him the satisfaction.
Soon, her back was a ruined expanse of raw flesh, blood soaking through her clothing, pooling at the waistband of her trousers. She lost count of the strikes. It didn’t matter anymore. There was only pain, a blinding, endless wave of suffering that drowned out everything else.
An eternity seemed to pass in that suffocating torment until Alrik’s breathing grew heavy with exertion. His strikes slowed, each one more labored than the last. She heard him grunt, a low, guttural sound, and then, mercifully, the lashes stopped.
Anne sagged against the post, her legs too weak to hold her weight. Her head lolled forward, her vision swimming, dark spots dancing at the edges. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
The clink of the Templar’s armor drew closer. He stepped into her line of sight, his shadow falling over her. His gloved hand grasped her chin, tilting her head up with a gentleness that made her skin crawl. She was too broken to resist, her body trembling as she stared up at him through blurred, bloodshot eyes.
Alrik’s face hovered inches from hers, his cheeks flushed and his eyes gleaming. His lips curled into a predatory smile as he licked them, the tip of his tongue flicking over his teeth. “Tell me the truth,” he whispered, his voice soft, intimate. “Say that you were Knight-Captain’s victim.”
Her vision swam, the pain making it hard to form words. “I… will not lie.”
The man’s smile widened. “Very well,” he murmured, releasing her chin.
Her head dropped, too heavy to hold up any longer. But then, to her surprise, Alrik slammed his head against the whipping post with a sickening thud.
The recruit blinked, confused, as he turned back toward her, his expression unnervingly calm. Blood welled instantly from the gash on his forehead, dark and viscous, running down his face in thick, crimson streams.
Otto leaned in close to Anne’s ear. “Another twenty lashes,” he breathed, “for assaulting your Knight-Lieutenant.”
