The torches flickered in the air he stirred as he rushed past, casting shadows on the wall that might have been intimidating for anyone else.

He stopped at the end of the passageway, clenching his fist against the wall and gritting his teeth at the sounds of pain carrying loudly from the next room.

The guards holding the boy stationary looked surprised to see the fury on his face and confused as he roared at the sight in front of him.

“What are you doing?” he bellowed, shoving them aside and wrenching the child’s arm from the barrel.

“We—We were given orders that the boy was to be delivered to the salt chamber, Lord.”

“From who?”

The child was sobbing. He sank to the floor and cradled the thin body in his arms.

The guards exchanged glances. “We thought . . . because he disobeyed . . . You said to put any man, woman, or child who displeased you in the Salt.”

“And so you assumed I wanted the same done to my son?”

“Son—?” The muddled confusion melted into twin masks of horror as their faces drained of color. But not enough. Not nearly enough to satisfy his anguish. His wrath.

The freshly skinned circlet around the boy’s wrist was raw and red; trembling from the force of his weeping.

He used the hem of his robe to gently blot away the flecks of salt clinging to the enflamed area and shut his eyes as his son screamed and thrashed.

“Be silent, Harow. The pain will pass.”

“There you are at it again.” The boy’s breath came out in gasps. “I’ve told you; my name is C’alhadrin, I do not know who Harow is. Please, I beg you to let me go.”

The words drove a spear of pain through his heart.

“Seven Hells.” He dug his nails into the red skin and held them there, steady against the agonized, guttural wail that cleaved the air around him in two.

“Tell me you remember. Say you do, or so help my I will make you.”

He must remember. He must.

“Enough!” the boy sobbed. “Enough! I remember!”

“Who am I?”

“My—” he writhed in his arms, “—father.”

“I’ve told you this. Who was your mother?”

“ . . . Queen Ahsildra.” Tears leaked out of his round blue eyes and streaked his dirty cheeks.

“No. Who was your mother? Your true mother.”

“I—I don’t—”

“Why are we where we are?’

There was only silence and the sound of crying; wails that were irritating as much as they were painful.

“You don’t remember,” he growled. “You still don’t remember.”

“Forgive me,” the boy whimpered. “Please. Don’t hurt me any longer. I want to go home.”

“My son.” He caressed the boy’s head. Blood wet his fingers. Salt crusted them. “My son, I am not hurting you, I only want you to remember. You must, you see. Or else I shall be alone.”

“I want my mother.”

“That woman doesn’t love you. I love you.”

“She does love me.” The boy covered his face with his uninjured hand and made a choked sound. “She loves me. She loves me. She loves me. ”

“She abandoned you.”

“No.”

“Yes. And I saved you.”

“I can’t remember anything!” the boy cried, and the air filled again with the sound of his wretched sobs. “I can’t remember what you want me to remember! Please, let me go home!”

“This is your home now.” He gathered the child into his lap, stroking the uneven skin and caressing the prominent bones. “And I’ll make you the heir of the mightiest Kingdom if only you call yourself Harow.”

“But—”

His arms around the child tightened, and the boy struggled against the clasp of his father, feeble arms beating uselessly against a chest that was firm from age.

“Call yourself Harow,” he whispered in the boy’s ear. “Or else you shall stay here, in this room, and never come out. What is your name?”

The child’s body shook with a steady purr of terror. “H—Harow,” he whispered.

“That’s right.” He let out a relieved breath and called for Sorel.

“Carry him up to my room,” he instructed and smoothed a hand over his son’s head with a tender hand. “I shall tend to his wound myself.”

“F—Father?”

“Do not fear.” He smiled down at him. “If you cannot remember, I shall make you remember.”

Harow let out a soft cry as he was lifted from the ground.

“It hurts!” he moaned.

“My poor son,” he whispered, as Harow was carried away. “My poor, poor boy, this is what she has done to you. She has done this.”

He gazed down at his left hand, which was painted red with the boy’s blood.

His blood is on your hands, Sunah. Wretched bitch.

“And you—”

The guards were frozen in place, faces gaunt and pale.

He couldn’t do anything about her. Not yet. So, he would do what he could with what he had in his grasp.

He removed the curved blade sheathed against his thigh and watched the men go delightfully rigid.

“That boy is mine.” His voice was cool, even as he burned. He took a step forward. They flinched but knew to move back was to end their lives.

“He’s mine to nurture. Mine to raise. Mine to punish.” He grasped the first one’s arm and rested the knife against the unmarred flesh. The guard’s muscle’s flexed, instinctually fighting against his grip.

Self-preservation was only admirable when one had something worth living for. Otherwise, it was just selfish. Pitiable.

Seven Hells, and twisted whores, how he hated pitiful men.

“You’ve both thieved from me and harmed the heir to the Radkkan throne. You have committed treason in the third and first offense. Thus, in accordance with our laws, you have two options before you. The Salt, or Jassialhwar.”

It only took minutes. Hardly that. Maybe it should have taken longer for a man’s true self to become evident. To decide whether he lived in shame or died with honor. But you only needed minutes, in the dark with no way out, facing a man who loved, or hated, and nothing in between. A man who had long ago witnessed the making of the world, taken part in the breaking of his own, and lived so many lives he knew just how worthless two in eternity were.

“What is your name?”

“Asol, Lord.”

“What was his name?”

Asol was trembling, his eyes shut and head bowed, refusing to see the body of his companion on the floor, blood still leaking from the wound to his throat, hand still wrapped around the hilt of the blade that made it.

“Hukka, Lord.”

“Do you envy Hukka, Asol?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“But you choose the Salt.”

Asol wept. “I am a coward, Lord.”

“Then you’ll be glad to be punished accordingly. Cut away the skin around your right hand. Do as you did to my son.”

It pleasured him to hear agony. It calmed him to watch as his order was obeyed, reconfirming his authority over these people. At least, it did at first. When Asol plunged his raw hand into the barrel of salt and cried, he was conflicted, but even more determined to succeed. He’d been human too long. Some of its weaknesses became embossed upon his soul. Sympathy. Guilt.

He might not survive another birth, keeping intact who he was, as he was, with the ability to do everything necessary to save his people.

He was a king. He must save his people