The reins tightened in Henry's grasp, and the horse came to a steady halt beneath him. His gaze lifted, settling on the worn wooden sign just ahead. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then a slow breath left his lips.
The last time he had been here… was not something he could easily forget.
His jaw tightened as the memories surged forward—unwelcome, vivid. The blows. The voices. The way they had looked at him.
Broken.
Beaten.
Spat on.
Dragged to the edge of death like he was nothing more than filth beneath their feet.
They had mistaken him for a beggar.
And he had sworn—sworn to himself—that he would never return to this place again.
Yet here he was.
His grip on the reins loosened slightly as he glanced past the sign, toward the path that led deeper in. He had asked around at the training grounds, piecing together what little information he could. Ser Benjamin had been seen here—Blackthorn. And if he was right…
Then this was where he had taken her.
Violet.
