Guards hauled Franklin—my dear stepson—into my study, their armoured boots thudding ominously on the floor. I watched from behind the cluttered mahogany desk, sunlight fracturing through rain-lashed leaded windows, casting watery halos on the towering bookshelves.
Franklin—Herick's so-called "dear Franklin," the one that he was loyal to until I decimated it—stumbled forward, wrists bound in iron manacles that clinked like mocking laughter. His face was gaunt, his remaining eye, which wasn't destroyed by me, darted wildly: hair matted, once-fine tunic torn and stained, reeking of undercity damp and fear-sweat. He had been trapped in the dungeons for almost two months now.
Herick whirled from his spot by the upended armchair, red-rimmed eyes blazing. "Prince Franklin! Franklin! Tell her—tell me that you didn't know about sister's death." His voice cracked, raw as an open wound, fists clenched white-knuckled. "Tell me!"
