The first monitor came on while the bathhouse was still moving.
It was mounted above the arch where the Black Bulls had gathered, a cracked square of glass that should have been too old to carry a royal signal. Static crawled across it in white lines. Then the feed steadied, and every person in the room stopped pretending to treat wounds.
Ty knew the room before the king stepped into view.
Stone walls. Fire cups fixed in iron brackets. Chains hanging from a ceiling lost above the camera angle. The feed had been framed for fear, which meant Threxian had chosen it himself or approved the person who had.
Rui-Chai hung at the center of it.
His wrists were locked in black cuffs above his head. Blood had dried through the side of his shirt where Threxian's plate had taken the blade. One arm sat wrong in the socket. His burned hand hung open, fingers swollen from the coin's heat.
He was alive, and that should have helped more than it did. It made Ty's chest hurt worse.
