In the morning the healer’s scent still lingered on the stone. In the night he’d rewrapped my belly, worked quietly, asked no needless questions, promised nothing. The bandage held now, but my stomach was empty; I saved half the water so they wouldn’t vanish for days again.
Toward noon the rhythm of the corridor changed. Boots didn’t drag their feet, keys didn’t jangle—every movement had its place. The scarred one and the young one appeared before the bars. Behind them the cloaked man. Then the fourth, the one near whom the air itself draws in. They didn’t speak his name; there was no need. The king came down.
“Open,” he said curtly.
The lock turned, the iron opened slowly. The young one shoved a chair into the center of the cell; its leg scraped a line across the stone. The king entere
