A roar of pain erupted from Jude’s chest as the scarred Witness pressed the red-hot iron against his sternum. It sizzled against his skin, lacing over the old Godfire scars. Jude could barely breathe through the pain. Blood coated his mouth and bile crawled up his throat.

“Keeper of the Word,” the scarred Witness said musingly. “You’re his protector. His servant. Tell me, Keeper, does your service to the Prophet extend to his bed? Some of the Paladin here seem to think so.”

Anger whipped through Jude, swift and white-hot. How dare these Paladin, who had so flagrantly betrayed their duty, turn Jude’s devotion, his love, into something base. They were the ones who should be ashamed, not Jude. Never again, and never for that.

The scarred Witness pressed the hot poker against his sternum again. A terrible, animal cry burst from Jude’s throat, pain seizing his senses.

“I wanted to simply kill you,” the scarred Witness said, grabbing a fistful of Jude’s hair and wrenching his head back. “But the Immaculate One says you must know where the Prophet is. If I tell him that you don’t, do you think he’ll let me slit your throat?”

Jude fought for breath, his whole body trembling so violently he felt he might be ripped from his skin. His pulse strained weakly, and he reached for the relief of unconsciousness. Anything to escape the pain.

His eyes fluttered closed. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. To let go. To stop. Maybe it would be like falling into a dream, like the dreams he had of Anton. He didn’t want to die, but that didn’t seem so bad.

The closer he floated to unconsciousness, the duller the pain felt. It was already ebbing away.

A clamorous bang cracked through the room, but Jude heard it as if from under water. He was already so far away. It couldn’t possibly matter. None of it could.

“Get out of our way,” a voice growled. It was familiar—Jude felt a warm flicker of comfort at the sound.

“You,” the scarred Witness snarled.

More commotion filled the room, flashes of movement and sound. Jude floated above it, a splintering boat tossed by a raging sea. Time seemed to pulse and contract, and Jude didn’t know if it was seconds or hours later when a single voice rose above the din, calling out his name.

“Jude!”

Hands clutched at Jude’s shoulders. He didn’t even have the strength to jerk away.

Jude forced his eyes to open. Anton’s face, lovely and familiar, swam before him, as if Jude had conjured him. He couldn’t help the smile that lifted the corners of his mouth.

Vaguely, he puzzled over why he didn’t feel the least bit surprised to see Anton here. And then he realized: This was a dream. He had already slipped into unconsciousness.