Loy opened his eyes.
His body felt shattered. The wound on his back still stung, his hands were bound tight, and his lips were parched and cracked. He had lost track of how many days he had been held here. All he knew was that whenever he made a mistake—no matter how small—a blow would follow. From his back, his head, from anywhere. Sometimes it was a bare fist. Sometimes a wooden club. Sometimes a whip fashioned from handmade leather cords.
Riri sat beside him, her eyes swollen from crying, her breath short and shallow. Her face was ghastly pale, her lips shriveled, and her skin dull from malnutrition. She could still speak, but her voice was a raspy croak, like someone who hadn't tasted water in an eternity.
"Loy..." she whispered.
"I'm here," Loy replied, his own voice equally ravaged. He tried to move his hands, but the ropes around his wrists were too tight. His skin was chafed raw, with traces of dried blood caking the bindings.
