They moved her twice more before the sun came up, always blindfolded, always in silence, until the smell told her more than her eyes could. Salt air. Old rope. Somewhere near water.
The new cell was smaller than the last, dry stone instead of damp, and colder in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Amara sat with her back against the wall, wrists still marked from the cuff Lucian had left on her, and listened.
That was the one skill nobody could take from her. Listening.
Footsteps passed at intervals she was starting to memorize. Two guards, changing shifts every few hours. A third voice further off, giving orders she couldn’t quite make out. And underneath all of it, so faint she’d almost missed it the first time, breathing. Slow, deliberate, close enough to be in the next ce
