Excerpt
PROLOGUE YOU WAKE UP in a stone room. You don’t know how long you’ve been here, maybe a few hours, maybe a week. There’s no window. Just a wooden door, a single torch burning low, and a man in a robe, holding a list. Your name is on it. He doesn’t accuse you. Not yet. That’s not how this works. He doesn’t need proof. He doesn’t need evidence. He just needs a suspicion, or a rumor, or the wrong word whispered in the wrong ear on the wrong day. And now here you are. This isn’t a novel. Or a horror movie. Or some overblown metaphor about authoritarianism. It’s the Inquisition. It was real. It happened. It wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t rogue. It wasn’t a conspiracy. It was a sanctioned, celebrated,...