LUCIAN'S P.O.V.
I stood with Rylan outside the cell, listening—or trying to listen—to the trembling witch inside. He kept mumbling something, his voice hoarse and raspy, like someone gargling with gravel.
"…witch… blockage… broken… examine…"
My head tilted slightly as I tried to piece his words together. Ares growled impatiently in my mind. "Does he think we're playing charades?
I turned to Rylan, frustration bubbling up like an overboiled pot. "What in the bloody hell is wrong with this guy? Why is he talking like he's got gravel lodged in his throat?"
Rylan looked at me, wide-eyed, then slowly shook his head, his lips twitching as if he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. "Lucian…" He dragged my name out, his tone dripping with disbelief. "You… burnt his throat, remember? With the iron brand? You know, the same one he used on Mai's foot? Ringing any bells?"
