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    Summary

    “You know how this ends.”

    The bard swallows and summons up the mask of confidence better suited to wooing crowds. “One can only hope it includes an end to stupid questions.”

    They jerk the chair he’s chained to backwards and tilt it until the only thing keeping it upright are their hands. Behind him, another drags the tub into place. He pants, struggling through the panic and the petty need to keep them from knowing that they’re getting to him. He knows it’s a losing battle.

    “Last chance, bard,” the hated voice whispers into his ear.

    He fills his lungs with the fetid smelling air of the prison and tries to find the resolve that had been enough to make him face Nilfgaard alone.

    A sigh. “Have it your way.”

    The water closes over his head.

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