SERAPHINA
The first week passes in isolation.
Food arrives three times a day, brought by silent guards who won't meet my eyes. The meals are simple but filling: bread, cheese, stew, sometimes fruit.
It's more food than I've seen in days, and I eat every bite, feeling my strength slowly return.
I wash in the basin, scrubbing away days of dungeon filth until my skin is raw. The bruises from Marcus are fading from deep purple to sickly yellow-green, and the defensive wounds on my arms are healing into pink lines.
But my ribs still ache when I breathe too deeply, a constant reminder of that night in the cottage.
Someone has left clean clothes, simple dresses in gray and brown, suitable for a prisoner, but better than the torn rags I arrived in.
When I catch my reflection in the water
