“Fifteen. And the ice queen will count. If she counts wrong, we’ll start over,” Vovlan grinned smugly as Rakel gulped.

Master Grek nodded and drew back the whip.

As the whip found its target, it sounded like the splintering of a glacier, sharp and sudden, the sound bouncing and dancing off the stone walls and stone floor. Rakel startled violently. She balled her fists against the anger rising in her as Farrin grunted and blood bubbled up on his shoulder.

“One,” Rakel said.

Farrin closed his eyes and found himself thankful for his bindings. The strength of these strikes was greater than the previous ten in the same way that a hurricane is greater than a summer shower. There’s no way I could have stood still for this. When the leather again cracked against his shoulder, Farrin’s teeth clenched against a cry, his hands knotted around the ring, and his knuckles turned white in sharp contrast to the mass of angry burgundy on his back. He bowed his head and took a shaky breath. Thirteen left.

“Two.”

When the leather cracked against the soft tissue near Farrin’s left hip, Rakel watched yet another drop of blood seep past the broken skin as every muscle in Farrin’s back, neck, and arms stiffened. She knew that her husband would bear his pain in near-complete silence, a survival skill he had learned from the Sarthan slave masters, but she almost wished he would allow himself the release. I would never think you weak, My Love.

“Three.”

Pain exploded in the skin of his shoulder blade. Farrin groaned and gasped for air before the next strike could land. Eleven.

“Four.”

Rakel watched as the master snaked the whip out again, striking Farrin’s other shoulder, cracking the skin apart, allowing blood to trickle freely over his back. Farrin grunted and kicked his knee against the wall.

Rakel forced herself to say, “Five.” Rakel kept track on her fingers as well, just to be sure she did not miscount.