The silence is the worst part.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been in this cell—days, maybe? My only company has been the damp stone walls, the rusted iron bars, and the rhythmic drip of water somewhere in the darkness beyond. My body aches from the cold seeping into my bones, but worse than that is the slow, creeping pain clawing its way up my spine. The spell is wearing off. I can feel it unraveling, peeling away like layers of raw, burning skin.
They’ve left me alone. No interrogations. No grand speeches from the False King. Just a single guard who slides a tray of stale bread and watery broth through the slot in the door twice a day, never speaking, never looking me in the eye. It’s almost as if they’re waiting for something.
Or maybe, they already know.
I press my fingers to my
