Break or die. It’s one or the other in Halazar Prison. I refuse to do either.

Two guards approach my cell. The man in front is carrying an annoyingly efficient lantern. After nearly a year of not seeing the sun, I’m blinded by mere lamplight.

It’s too soon for them to be coming for me again. I expect them to pass, but they stop at my door. I don’t recognize either guard, but Warden Glavstone is always rotating them out—anyone who sticks around for too long might learn too much.

“Clara Graysword?” Graysword: the name given to all orphaned and unwanted children in Eclipse City. The name I gave when I was captured. The name that told the world I had no family to take down with me.

I lift my chin in answer.

“You’re requested for an audience.” The man raises his lantern higher as if trying to get a better look at me through the bars. Unfortunate for him, as I’ve been left to rot, and my visage reflects it.

“Sounds formal.” My voice cracks, my throat drier than yew ash. “With whom?” The guards don’t answer and instead slip a key into the heavy padlock on my door.

Usually, that lock is undone once per week, and they already came for me three days ago. I’m let out only to be taken to a hidden and cramped closet in Warden Glavstone’s office, where I ink tarot cards for him in exchange for what little comforts can be found in this tomb. But I would’ve done the work even without bartering. It has kept my mind sharp and hands skilled for when I get out of here.

Because, whether by my own skill or from my family coming for me, I am getting out. I refuse to die here.

The men step aside, and I slip into the space between them. Once my eyes adjust to the lamplight, I can see the place of my captivity with more clarity than ever before—more than I’d like, frankly.

By the Twenty Major Arcana, Halazar truly is horrendous.

The walls are thick with grime and blood and other substances I have willed myself not to think about. I can only imagine the stink that clouds the air—my nose has been so overwhelmed for so long that I can’t smell anything anymore.

My fellow prisoners hiss at us, then shrink away from the harsh glow of the lantern and back into the safety of their shadows. Reduced to animals, their clothes in tatters like mine, they crawl over the filth on hands and knees.

The minds and bodies of the incarcerated wither away in the darkness. This is the bleakest prison in the entirety of the Oricalis Kingdom, the place where the worst of the worst go. Murderers, rapists, abusers of innocents, and those like me . . . who would dare to use the arcana without being under the crown’s control.

I’m escorted down a passage I’m not familiar with and up a narrow flight of stairs. The guard behind me rests his hand on the pommel of his sword but doesn’t bother unsheathing it. There’s no need for overt threats. Where could you go? is the unasked question.