Seraphine's POV
The dawn crept up from the stones: cold, gray, and taciturn. The iron on my wrists had grown cold; the bandage on my stomach held what little I had left inside. Before every move, my body "discussed" with the pain how much it could bear. The wolf inside me watched quietly, like a dark, warm shadow behind my chest.
Footsteps approached. They weren't hurried, not shuffling. They came in a rhythm that one recognizes: the person coming knows this place. A key turned in the lock, the small door sprung open, and a lamp was hung on the hook. The main bars remained closed.
Three figures stopped. The scarred man—a scar from his temple to the corner of his mouth—with economical movements. The young man, with nervous eyes, constant tension in his shoulders. And the cloaked man, who
