The Skaladin capitaine was chained to a wall, but it was only for show. All the color had been drained from her body, leaving her as gray and washed out as a tombstone in the rain. Her eyes were vacant and staring, her breath shallow and weak. Vrain had shadowburned her within a breath of death.

Bitterlich’s gut curdled and he had to breathe carefully to keep down his bile. He had been burned that way before. The sight of her brought it back to him: agony beyond the reach of comprehension, every nerve aflame and every thought burned in acid.

“That idiot!” Bitterlich growled.

“Sir,” Paul’s voice rose in fright.

Bitterlich closed his eyes and unclenched his fists. “Lieutenant, get that woman a blanket. Make her warm. Keep a light on in there. If you can get some soup down her, do that.”

He left the marines to their job and stumbled into the hold. Saints, but Vrain was a fool. Not everyone recovered from being shadowburned. As an imperial officer Vrain might not be allowed to torture a prisoner, but as a Sanguinaire he could turn any clayborn he liked into a bloodhollow or reduce them to a soul smudge. Such was the divine warrant of sorcery.

The fact that Vrain had also fouled up Bitterlich’s best hope of figuring out where they might catch up with Hasdrubal was a bitter wound on top of the loathsome cruelty.

A soft sigh and a snuffle reached his ears. He followed the sound to a bay. There on Isabelle’s sky trunk sat Rebecca, her jacket across her lap, her face in her hands, sobbing.

“Rebecca,” Bitterlich said. What had brought this on … aside from the business of being transformed into a Seelenjäger right in the middle of a harrowing sky battle and then being promptly abandoned by every adult who had more important things to do.

Rebecca started and stared at him. Her pupil-less eyes were bloodshot and her nose snotty. He extended his handkerchief. She stared at it mutely for a moment, then took it and emptied her face into it.

“May I sit down?” he asked.

“Don’t care,” she mumbled, but she scooted over when he planted his posterior on the chest beside her. She handed him back his handkerchief, which was going to need laundering before it went anywhere near his pocket.

“What happened?” he asked, bracing to be blamed for her sudden acquisition of scales and horns and obligate nobility.

“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I just … I was trying to fix this stupid jacket.” She shook the offending garment like a terrier shaking a rat and threw it on the deck. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to. I don’t know how.” She wasn’t talking about sewing up a rent.