Mara woke to silence.
Not the hollow silence that followed violence. Not ringing, not sharp. This silence was padded, intentional. The kind designed to keep a person calm long enough to stop fighting.
Her wrists were free.
That was the first thing she noticed. No chains. No cuffs. No rope biting into skin. She lay on a narrow bed, blankets folded neatly at her waist. Her boots sat side by side on the stone floor, laces tucked in as if someone had taken time with them.
A room, not a cell.
Stone walls. One small barred window set high, clean enough to let in pale light. A table. A chair. A pitcher of water is within reach.
Mara sat up slowly, cataloging details the way she always did. No dizziness. No fog. No chemical taste at the back of her throat. Whatever they’d used to subdue her
