They hauled me down the corridor past cells filled with bloodied faces—people from the market, some I recognized, others beaten too brutally to identify. The dungeon spiraled deeper beneath Dragon Valley where the palace rose high above, oblivious to the suffering that occurred below. Where Damien was likely still safely hidden at his uncle’s mansion in the Northern District, unaware that I'd been captured.
The interrogation chamber reeked of copper and fear. Chains hung from the ceiling. Various instruments lined the walls—pliers, knives, brands. A masked figure stood in the center with his hands clasped behind his back.
“Another one from the riot,” the guard announced, shoving me forward. “Claims to be Lady Arya.”
The interrogator slowly turned, his face obscured by a black leather mask with only slits for eyes. Those eyes—pale blue, almost colorless—assessed me with clinical detachment.
“Does she now?” His voice was surprisingly soft. “How... creative.”
I straightened my spine despite the pain radiating through my ribs. “IamLady Arya. You're making a terrible mistake.”
The interrogator leisurely circled me. “We've had three Lady Aryas today alone. And two Prince Damiens. And one who surprisingly stated they were Prince Julian,” he sighed. “The desperate will grasp at any protection they can invent.” He nodded to the guards. “Chain her.”
They dragged me to the center of the room and secured my wrists in a pair of hanging shackles. The cold metal bit into myalready raw skin as they hoisted me until my toes barely scraped the floor. My shoulders screamed in protest.
“Now,” the interrogator said, selecting a thin, curved blade from the wall, “let's begin with a simple question. What is your real name?”
“I told you,” I said through gritted teeth. “I'm Lady Arya Ryder.”
He sighed, as if disappointed. “Very well.”
The first cut came without warning—a shallow slice across my collarbone. I hissed and bit back a scream.
“The market riot was coordinated,” he said conversationally, examining the blade. “Someone has been spreading lies about grain shortages and trying to destabilize Emperor Thorne's rule.” The interrogator dragged the blade along my jawline, not cutting, just threatening. “I want names.”
“I don't know any names!” I spat. “I just happened to be at the market.”
“With your maid? Dressed like a commoner? Inciting violence?” He laughed softly. “You expect me to believe Lady Arya would be so careless?”
The next cut came at my shoulder, deeper this time. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my scream. “I don't care what you believe,” I managed. “When Thorne finds out—”
“TheEmperor,” he corrected sharply, pressing the tip of the blade against my throat, “has personally ordered the interrogation of all rebels.”
I bit my lip until I tasted copper. “Where is Emperor Thorne? He'll recognize me.”
“His Imperial Majesty is too busy to deal with pretenders,” one of the guards spat. “Especially ones who desecrate their bodies with markings.”
The interrogator paused, his head tilting. “Show me.”
The guard ripped my sleeve, exposing the intricate tattoos that covered my left arm from wrist to shoulder—a tapestry of symbols, creatures, and patterns from my world. The interrogator's eyes widened behind his mask.
“Interesting,” he murmured, tracing one of the designs with the tip of his blade. “No noble lady would mark herself this way. Yet your face...” He stepped closer, studying my features. “The resemblance is remarkable.”
“Because Iamher!” I insisted, though the words sounded hollow, even to my ears.
The interrogator chuckled. “A talented impostor, perhaps. TherealLady Arya attended the Emperor's council meeting this morning.” He selected a different tool from the wall—metal tongs that gleamed in the torchlight. “Now, shall we try again? Who are you working with?”
My blood ran cold. Lady Arya at the council meeting? That was impossible! She was trapped in my world, just as I was trapped in hers.
“You're lying,” I hissed. “Lady Arya couldn't have been at any council meeting.”
The interrogator's eyes crinkled with amusement. “And why is that?”
I bit my tongue. I couldn't tell him the truth—that Arya and I had somehow switched places during that thunderstorm months ago, that I wasn't from this world at all.
“Someone is impersonating me,” I said instead. “BecauseI'mthe real Arya.”
The interrogator sighed dramatically. “This charade grows tiresome.” He heated the metal tongs in a nearby brazier until they glowed orange-red. The smell of hot metal filled the chamber. “You know,” he said conversationally, “I've interrogated dozens since the riots began. Most break quickly.Some hold out longer.” He lifted the tongs, examining their glow. “But all of them break eventually.”
