You are Lady Gwynfryd Duntreow, first daughter of Lord Domeric Duntreow and heir to Hallowgrove. If you could shut your eyes off from the worn bare wood of this fisherman’s hovel… if you could ignore the itching of your skin, irritated by the elements and what you would like to believe are not fleas… if you could shut out the dull, coarse cackles of the men outside who brought you to this point… if you could stop yourself from smelling the filth of your body… if you could wash the bitter taste of despair from your mouth. If, if, if… only then could you retreat again to the fantasies you’ve constructed to pass the time, the time that has been endlessly drawn out and yet so fleeting.

By your best reckoning, you have been a captive here for three moons. You were sailing from Stenmoor to Fawnton with your niece, Eileen, your eldest brother Corwyn’s only living daughter. He brought shame to your house and died a craven’s death, but his children were innocent. Devyn perished not long after him. Gwayne, your true brother, fell in battle. As did Malcolm, your husband. So many lost only for your father’s house to sink lower into the depths of the Rainwood. But it was Eileen you loved the most. If that makes you a poor widow, then so be it. At your lady mother’s urging, you left your husband’s home of Wensington to take service with your niece. You saw her flourish, a bright flower amongst the weeds of your dying house, only to be stamped out by monsters wearing the skins of men.