The taste of dirt was no longer an insult; it was a metric.
Selene sat perfectly still on the iron edge of the drainage grate, her head bowed so low that the matted canvas of her blonde hair completely obscured her face.
The linen bindings Jaxon had secretly tucked beneath her shackles were stiff with dried serum and cold tallow, but the skin beneath them was cool. The silver-fever had been reduced to a dormant, manageable ember, locked away behind the high walls of her tactical focus.
Above her, the heavy iron bolt of the cistern door shrieked as it was thrown back.
The light came first, a violent, orange wave of torch-fire that splashed across the freezing black water at her shins.
Then came the boots. Three enforcers, their movements heavy and dripping with the loud, arrogant ene
