Over and over again, I shaved away chunk after chunk from the logs until the world melted away. Until I melted away. I spun, I leapt, I plunged forward. Striking first with my sword and then with my dagger, drilling hole after hole, wound after wound, until my arms were numb.

“What’d that log ever do to you?”

I whipped around to find Cion leaning against the mouth of the tunnel.

My chest heaved. My cooled sweat clung to me in the dampness of the cave. I wiped it from my brow with my arm.

He pushed off and sauntered over, stopping in front of the logs. “I think you successfully killed it.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” I replied. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Some of the boys and I were still up.” His eyes moved from the logs back to my face. “I’d thought you’d be exhausted.”

“Me too.” I rubbed my neck where the golden cuff cut into me.

“You’d have a better range of motion if you took that off,” Cion said. “You’d be able to whip your head around faster, see more quicker.”

I slid my fingers back and ran them over one of the clasps. If I took it off, he’d see the scars. Everyone would. Yet, keeping it on felt like I was still shackled to my father, still chained like a tiger, ready to fight, to destroy whoever he told me to.

I was done with that. I was done being afraid.

“Here,” Cion said. “Let me help.”

He stepped forward and gently pulled my fingers away from the clasps, then snapped them open.

He was standing so close I could feel the heat rising off his body. His fingers trailed along my neck as he removed the cuff.

I caught it as it fell forward and turned to face him.

I half hoped the weak light from the torches hadn’t highlighted the raised scars. But his eyes went right to them. He leaned forward and lightly touched each one. “Who did this to you?”

My lips opened, but no sound came out. I felt exposed. I felt weak.

“Was it your father?”

“Rodric.”

The torches cast soft light across his face. His brow was scrunched in concern. “Is that why you wear this?” He took the cuff from my hands. “To hide them?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “If my father saw the marks, he would’ve known Rodric was stronger than me. He’d know I was weak, that I failed, that I wasn’t strong enough.” Although it hadn’t mattered in the end. My father had chosen Rodric anyway.

Cion shook his head. “It’s not weak to bear scars. It shows you were strong enough to survive.” He handed the cuff back to me.

“Or too weak to fight back,” I countered. I ran my fingers over the metal. Dents marred the surface where Rodric had strangled me.

“Scars tell their own stories,” Cion said, “and out here, we listen to them. Because if one boy has a scar from a guard across his stomach, he tells the story of how he got it to the other boys so they can be better prepared. If one boy cuts his hand on something on the rooftops, we tell everyone else about that spot. We use scars to learn. So you see, they make us stronger in the end.”