Her back. I squint to see various lines and scars running over her back. But these aren’t from growth spurts or from having supernatural origins. They’re from being flogged. A low grumble sounds in my chest like a warning. “Do I need to ask who did this to you?” I manage to say. “I’ve taken care of it,” she says coldly and there’s nothing more to say. The prince she married, the prince who ridiculed her and beat her throughout her marriage, is now dead, and at her hands. Literally.
