Helga knew instantly that the second aunt harming herself was out of the question—it simply didn't fit her.
A woman who commanded respect wherever she went, who wore her confidence like armor, would never submit herself to such a humiliating fate. The very idea was absurd.
Her eyes returned to the young man, or rather, the young mer, standing off to the side.
His stillness, the way he seemed to try and make himself smaller, almost invisible, beneath the heavy clothing he wore in the scorching heat, gave everything away.
The telltale signs were there—bruises hidden under long sleeves, the way he avoided eye contact, the posture of someone long conditioned to endure pain without protest.
Helga didn't need to ask more questions. The whip hanging on the wall wasn't for show; its use was clear.
And it wasn't the second aunt or her daughter who bore its marks. It was him—the silent, subdued mer standing before her.
