Sera did not pull her spear back.
The steel point remained steady against Garrick’s throat, pressing hard enough to dent the dirty flesh above his collarbone.
“You lie like a dog, Garrick,” Sera said, her voice barely louder than the wind in the culvert. “You helped Briggs forge caravan manifests in Ashford. Why should I believe a single word from your mouth?”
Garrick pressed his palms into the freezing muck, shivering violently. “Because I don’t want to die here! Look at my back, Sera!”
He twisted his torso with a sharp hiss of agony. Under the pale moonlight, the shredded hemp of his tunic revealed deep, weeping lacerations. The flesh was purple, crusted with dirt and dried pus where the overseer’s spiked leather whip had stripped away skin.
“Varga doesn’t care about the Vance name,” Garrick choked out, tears carving clean lines through the coal dust on his cheeks. “He doesn’t care that Father gave him two thousand stones. To him, I’m just an abacus clerk who knows too much about the ore theft.”
“Then you should have kept your mouth shut,” Sera said coldly.
“He is going to kill me anyway!” Garrick whispered, his voice rising in panic before he clamped his teeth together. “Once the Guild inspection is over, Varga is liquidating the entire penal roster. He will stage a tunnel collapse in Shaft Four to wipe out the evidence and bury you.”
