The healer's wing was a prison draped in silk.
Elara lay on a bed of soft furs, the walls adorned with soothing tapestries, a brazier of calming herbs filling the air with lavender-scented smoke. Two female healers attended her, their hands gentle, their voices soft, their eyes watchful. They brought her broth and sweetened tea. They spoke of cleansing rituals and restorative sleep.
They were jailers, and she was their prized captive.
For three days, she played along. She drank the tea (and subtly spilled half of it). She closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She let them believe their whispers of "corruption" and "influence" were taking root. But beneath the facade, her spark diminished but not extinguished was listening, learning, waiting.
She heard the guards talk. The trial. The sente
