But Santiago is alive. He’ll come for me. I have to believe that.

I stop, though, because another thought interrupts that never-ending cycle.

What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t come? What if he leaves me here to rot until I’m expected to appear before The Tribunal again? What if he’s alive but not himself? Hurt. And what if he’s alive but doesn’t want me back?

At that, I let out a strange, snort-laugh. It’s ugly.

Yes. He’ll want me back. He’ll want to be the one to punish me.

I close my eyes, confused by all this, my own thoughts, my feelings, this isolation, this darkness. I tug the blanket closer, rubbing warmth into my freezing feet. It’s so cold here. My captor must realize it too because he gave me a second blanket. Same as the first one. Rough and terrible but at least it’s something.

Does he think I’m guilty of what they’re accusing me of?

I drift off, snatching sleep when it comes before the cold, and my dreams wake me. Tonight, though, when I startle awake, it’s not either of those things that rouse me. It’s the key in the lock.

I blink my eyes open, my brain in a fog from the lack of sleep, lack of sunlight, and no exercise. Lack of nutrition. A half bowl of cold soup, a wedge of stale bread, and an apple a day are not enough to sustain me.

Whoever it is is carrying a lantern and there it is. That spark of hope inside me. I sit up, but the moment I recognize the cloak, the hood, the spark is extinguished.

He walks in without a word to me. That’s not unusual, though.

I fumble for my blindfold. I forgot to pull it down, but I do now. I wonder if I should ask for a new strip of cloth. This one is disgusting.

“Stand up,” he says.

“What?”

“Up. On your feet.”

This is different. I release the blanket, shuddering as I stand. I’m not sure I’ll ever get warm again.

“Arms.”

“Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“Arms.”

I extend my arms out to him and feel the familiar rope wrap around the healing, scabbed skin. I feel the warmth of tears slide down my face again.

“Are you taking me back? To The Tribunal?”

He doesn’t reply. Weaving the rope around and between my wrists, he pulls me to the center of the room, where I know the ring he has hooked me to on the ceiling is. He turns me to face away from him, my back to the door.

“No, please. It’s too high. It hurts…”