The people chained to the walls and torture devices are a varied mix. Men and women, boys and girls, of different races. No babies—Lord Loss likes to be able to hold discussions with his victims. With a single exception, I don’t recognize any of them, though I know by his magical aura that one—a thin, blond-haired man—is a Disciple.

Bec studies the Disciple—he’s in the worst shape of all, kept alive only by magic—then moves on, her gaze sweeping over a girl my age. I didn’t notice her the first few times. To Bec she’s of no more interest than any of the others. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. It was only after the fourth or fifth time, when I was concentrating on details to keep boredom at bay, that I focused on the girl’s face and got a shock that echoes even now, twenty or so viewings later.

The girl is pretty, but her face is covered with blood and scrunched up with terror. Her clothes hang from her in filthy rags, but I’m sure they originally came from the finest designer boutiques. And although her hair is a tangled mess and her nails are long and cracked, once they were as carefully tended as a model’s.

Apart from the blood, the girl doesn’t seem to have been tortured, but many of Lord Loss’s victims look unmarked. He patches them up and lets them recover a little when he’s done, to make it all the more painful next time. Inside, I’m sure she’s been twisted and torn in more ways than most humans could imagine.

As Bec’s eyes dart about, I snatch the same quick glimpse of the girl that I’ve been horrified by ever since I realized who she was. Back on Earth, in a quiet hospital room, my lips move as I mutter in my sleep. “Bo Kooniart…”