I woke to pain.
Not the sharp, specific pain of an injury, but the dull, throbbing ache of a body that had been handled roughly. My head pounded. My wrists burned where ropes had cut into them. And my mouth was dry, my tongue thick and useless.
I forced my eyes open.
I was in a tent—rough canvas walls, a dirt floor, the faint glow of firelight filtering through the gaps. Beside me, bound and unconscious, was Mira. Her face was even worse up close—bruises darkening her cheeks, a cut across her lip, her clothes torn and dirty.
"Mira." I tried to speak, but my voice came out as a croak. I tried again, louder. "Mira, wake up."
She stirred, moaning softly. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening with fear when she saw me.
"Luna?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "They
