The Boy's POV
The night had already been too much for my mind to hold, yet the King wasn't finished.
Chris Blackwood raised his hand. His voice, calm and unshakable, cut through the courtyard.
"Bring her out."
Two B.A.M. guards marched forward dragging someone in chains. My blood ran cold. My knees buckled.
It was her.
My mother.
Her hair was tangled, her dress torn, but her eyes—oh God, her eyes—still held that warmth that had kept me alive all my life.
"Mother…" My voice cracked.
She looked at me, tears already streaming down her face. "Son… no… no, please."
Chris turned toward me, his face unreadable. "A soldier of Blackwood must not hesitate. Love is weakness. Devotion to blood is nothing compared to devotion to the Empire."
He held out a whip. Black leather, cold, heavy, dripping with silent authority.
"Prove yourself," Chris said. "Strike her. Break her. Or break before me."
The courtyard froze. Soldiers didn't even breathe. Amara's lips curved into something between curiosity and cruelty, watching me the way a hawk watches a mouse.
I couldn't move. My hand trembled as the whip was pressed into my palm. My mother's sobs cut deeper than any blade.
"No, son," she cried. "Don't do this. I would rather die than see you chained to him like this. I would rather…" Her voice cracked, but her eyes burned. "…I would rather you refuse and suffer than live a coward."
My chest felt like it was splitting apart. The whip grew heavier by the second. Chris's gaze drilled into me—merciless, unblinking.
"Choose," he commanded. "Your mother… or your King."
The world spun. My heart screamed. And for the first time in my life, I wished I had been born someone else.
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