Garrel for the first half, and then Ireyne for the second. They both made sure to count out-loud each strike, all the way to fifty.

For his part, Jon remained as quiet and unmoving as possible. At least he thought he did. Halfway through, all sounds other than Garrel and Ireyne’s voices ebbed away and his vision narrowed down so much that he could no longer see.

The fiftieth and last lashing offered little relief. Immediately after, salt was rubbed against his wounds and he felt a million stings on his skin. After that, his mind became a jumbled mess of disconnected memories, punctuated only by the stinging agony every hour.

His arms felt numb, blood and sweat seeped into his trousers. When the sun finally disappeared on the horizon and someone came to open the manacles, Jon’s knees gave away from under him.

Someone wrapped their arms around his torso. “Got you,” Bella said.

“Thank you,” Jon groaned out the words. It took him a while to realize that the leather strip had fallen from his mouth. He found it lying by his feet. Almost desperately, he pulled away from Bella, fell to his knees, and grabbed it in both hands.

His teeth had left a deep imprint on the leather, even piercing through at some points. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was what he placed inside. Fingers still numb, he struggled through the otherwise simple task of unfolding the leather strip. Once done, the pendant fell down to the stone floor, bouncing twice over the stone before Jon finally caught it for good.

A sigh of relief escaped his dried lips.

“What’s so important about that pendant anyways?” Aeron asked. “Doesn’t seem too valuable.”

Jon would never tell its true worth. He limited his answer to, “My mother’s.” With considerable effort, he stood up again.

Around the platform, there were less than twenty students, a far cry from the mass of people who came to watch him getting whipped. They lingered around for just a minute or so before heading to the feasting hall.

From the Sunset Building’s direction, a pair of teachers talked as they approached, the man’s black robes contrasting with the woman’s white. After spending months working for them, Jon could identify Cedrik and Willow from just that. He had already gotten accustomed to the two. What he hadn’t gotten accustomed to was the change in roles.

Willow talked, or rather argued, the most. Cedrik could barely get two words in without being barraged by his sister.

“...through enough so don’t mention it again,” was what Jon managed to catch before she jumped on the platform. One hand on his shoulder, she circled around Jon to examine the damage. “That’s not looking good, but it could be worse.” She took note of his forearm and the still healing nose. “Can you walk on your own?”

“I think so,” Jon answered.

“Follow us, then. We’ll take you to the healer. You will be as good as new after a day’s rest.”

Jon shook his head. Slowly, lest he becomes nauseous. “No healing… I want the scars to stay.”

Willow was confused.

“Why would you want that?” Deon asked. “Is this some weird southerner tradition where you keep the scars as trophies?”

There were probably southern tribes with such a custom. From his mother's stories, the Yao tribe had a similar custom where they would cut their skin in designs, something akin to tattoos. These scar-tattoos served all sorts of purposes. To determine one’s role in the tribe, to prestige the elders, to commemorate a great feat, or even to become closer to the orishas.

Jon’s reasons had nothing to do with that. “I want to remember.” He stopped to take a breath. “Remember what they did.”

Professor Willow wasn’t convinced. “Stop talking nonsense and come with us.” She grabbed him by the hand, her grip so strong that even at full strength he wouldn’t be able to get free.

Rather than spending the last of his strength trying to fight it, Jon resorted to another tactic. “Please, I beg of you.”

From the change in her expression, Jon knew he made the right choice. “Jon—”

“Please...”

“If he wants it so much then just let him keep it,” Cedrick said and was met with a murderous glare from Willow.

“As you wish then,” she said before the hand holding him lit up. Jon felt a shot of pain in his forearm as the broken bone rearranged itself, returning to its original state. She did the same for his nose, and then finally for his back. “There, this should at least hold it together long enough for your body to heal itself. Don’t forget to rest for the next couple of days, and I hope you enjoy your scars.”