“Read it."
Cyr tossed the leather-bound ledger onto the table between them. The spine cracked from age, pages fluttering open to rows of faded ink.
Eileen glanced at the column of figures—supplies, rations, and medicine. Her fingers paused, then she calmly picked up a quill and began to write.
*Unable. Mute.*
Cyr smirked. “You're not *unable*. You're hiding."
She didn't respond.
“Go on," he pressed. “Open your mouth. Say *anything*. A name. A lie. A curse."
Silence.
He leaned back in his chair, head tilting. “What would it take? Fire? Pain? A threat?"
She met his eyes, and for a breath, they locked—silver storm against storm.
Cyr's lips curled. “Fine. I'll wait."
—
That night, he tested her again.
The moment she entered his chamber, he nodded toward the door.
“Leave it open."
