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“Elric!” says the woman, sharply enough that the man stops speaking immediately. Lyr wonders what he was going to say. In a low tone that Lyr strains to hear, the woman says, “Let me handle Selim.”

But it is only a moment’s distraction before the lashing begins and Lyr cannot think of anything else.

Damon’s big battle-scarred body is hanging in chains by his thick wrists. Lyr has seen Damon stripped only twice before. It is a horror that he should see Damon’s body like this, while it is still so unfamiliar. Those shoulders, that chest, those thick muscled thighs, that had delighted Lyr, now it is sickening to see them. Damon is strong, but any man, stripped and alone, in front of a crowd assembled to see him suffer, is weak.

Lyr can’t help wondering what he would look like if he was there in Damon’s place.

There is another man, shirtless, in black breeches, heavy black boots and a black mask, standing behind him holding a long whip. He looks strong, with a layer of fat over a torso that is thick with muscle. His arms and chest are covered in dense dark hairs. Below the scaffold drummers begin to play a slow beat.

The small man walks up onto the scaffold. He speaks first to Damon and then makes an announcement of the charges, the nature of the punishment stead. He points to Lyr as he outlines what is about to happen. Lyr can barely make out the words over a strange low whistling in his ears.

People in the crowd shout things. Something about The One Man Army, something about a slave, and very clearly, the word ‘luxorite’.

They roar and jeer louder as it begins. The masked man draws back and raises the lash. Lyr holds his breath. Time suspends for a moment. And then it falls with a heavy thump that makes Lyr whimper. Damon is driven forward in the manacles, grunting. Lyr watches his feet shift on the wooden planks of the scaffold to hold his balance, as a stripe of red is pulled up on his back, spilling thin blood as the lash rips away from his flesh.

Lyr can’t believe this is happening.

The lash flies again. More blood, another red line ripped into flesh. Damon grunts, gasps in pain. It happens. It keeps happening. Again. Again and again to the heavy beat of the drum. Damon’s noises of pain. His bare feet shifting to hold his body in place. A criss-cross pattern forms on his back. Damon’s skin is being removed in strips.

Blood snakes down his big body in tiny red streams and makes patterns around his feet, making slippery pools that make it harder and harder for him to stand.

His back is laid open, bit by bit, stripe by stripe, pain by pain.

Lyr watches. He cannot look away. He sees the cold sweat on Damon’s skin mingle with the blood. He sees Damon’s thighs start to shake and the moment that his legs cannot hold his weight anymore and he slumps, letting his wrists bear it all. His shoulders will tear, Lyr thinks.

And it still goes on. The lash flying. Hitting Damon like he’s meat.

Lyr watches with tears rolling down his cheeks.

Will this kill Damon? This punishment that should have been Lyr’s. For the first time, Lyr finds himself seeking some comfort in Jareleezi’s magic and the messages she had received from her Gods. If they were right, if meeting Lyr means Damon is fated to travel to Ismagaar and to Jareleezi, Damon cannot die now. He hopes, for the first time, with a bright, pure, desperate hope, that all they said is true. That all Jareleezi’s magic is real. Because, if it is, Damon will live.

He will live, Lyr thinks. And if he does, he will never be The One Man Army again.

What will he be?

Damon is unconscious when he is taken down from the scaffold. Lyr watches. He cannot tell if Damon is alive, dead or close to death. His inert body is carried to the cart to jeers from the crowd. Lyr is unsure what to do. He is still flanked by two enforcers.

Rafus stands up. “Does my son live?” he bellows across the scaffold. “Gelen, tell me now, does he live?”

The small man from the justice hall is watching from a platform beside the scaffold. He looks to the masked man, who nods.

The small man turns. “He lives still.”

Lyr feels like he will faint with relief.

Rafus says, “Take my son to my private chambers in the Tower of the Heir.”

“Brother,” says Selim next to him, “he must be taken to the dungeons. He has confessed to a great crime.”

Rafus turns to Selim. “Please, Your Grace, you can be sure he will not run. Look at him.” This is stated quietly, but Lyr is close enough to both of them to hear it.

“Very well,” says Selim. He speaks to the small man. “See it is done. He is to be held under guard in the Crown Prince’s quarters.”

“And the slave?” says the small man.

“Keep them together. He will also need to face his crimes.”

Lyr goes with Rafus to a carriage where he is taken back to the Rose Palace and the Tower of the Heir. He doesn’t know how Damon is transported, but he is carried in on a pallet sometime later, lying on his stomach, his back glistening, sickeningly red and black. Skin gone. Can he survive an injury like this?