Wyll was, in a lot of ways, lucky. Most of the other prisoners from the grove had already been sent to a necromancer to be turned into undead puppets. He had been spared from that fate for one reason: you.

Some part of him wished this weren’t the case. It would have been better to die. Better dead than some puppet. He was your prisoner, and your every whim became his hell. You called, and he came, chains rattling.