Sergeant Wilson and his unit vacated their post like frenzied ants. The heavy doors banged shut, swallowing the sound of their footsteps.

Una curled her lip. “Pathetic.”

“I think you scarred him for life,” Wren said.

Una tossed her hair over her shoulder. “Or maybe this will be a lesson in fortitude.”

“Maybe.”

Una pulled out a set of keys and began to unbolt the locks on Hal’s cell. With every clang and whine of loose metal, Wren’s anxiety climbed higher. Una ran her fingers uncertainly along the door’s handle. “You may not like what you see.”

“I don’t care.”

Una pushed open the door. What lay beyond was a windowless room that smelled of stagnant water and the dull tang of blood. The light of her lantern pushed back the darkness and illuminated a still figure in the corner.

Hal.

Wren’s heart leapt in sheer relief, and she all but ran to his side. He was hunched over in a chair, bound at the ankles and wrists. With his head hanging, his hair fell over his face and concealed most of him from view. All she could see was the feathered, purpled edges of a bruise that crept like ivy from underneath the frayed blindfold.

“Wren.” She didn’t have to touch him, didn’t have to speak, for him to recognize her. His voice was thick with relief and rough with strain. “I thought maybe I’d imagined the feeling of you close by.”

“You didn’t.” She couldn’t help gently tracing his jaw with trembling fingers before she found the edge of the blindfold. “I’m here.”

Little by little, she peeled it away, as if readying to expose a festering wound to air. When she’d bared him, the sight turned her stomach. His left eye was swollen almost completely shut. Mottled bruises streaked his face, and thin lacerations notched his cheekbones, like the skin had split open from the force of the blows.

Her anger razed all her joy, all her relief. Hal was a war criminal, but this … How could they do this to him? This wasn’t justice. It was vengeance, stolen and enacted in the moments when no one was watching.

She swallowed her fury like a hot coal. She could feed this feeling later. For now, she needed to assess him for any critical damage—and then get him out. The pupil of his good eye was a pinprick. The other swallowed his irises entirely. He was concussed at the very least, but he was alive.

He offered her an uncertain smile. Wren shook her head, fighting the urge to throw her arms around him. “You look ghastly.”

Hal’s gaze drifted downward and snagged on the gleaming medals adorning her uniform. She couldn’t tell if he looked impressed or mournful—or maybe a bit of both. “So do you.”