Ayla
Morning light seeped through the frosted glass, thin and cold as the silence pressing against the walls.
I lay staring at the ceiling for too long, listening to the emptiness stretch. No voices. No movement beyond the slow crackle of the hearth. At least when I had been free, there had been sound wind whispering over the ridges, feet sinking into soil, the hum of life threading through the trees.
Now there was only this, velvet curtains and a silence sharp enough to taste.
The door creaked, and a young scullery maid slipped in with a tray, her eyes downcast, her movements practiced and wordless. She set the meal down, dipped her head, and left before I could form a single question.
I pushed the heavy coverlet aside and sat up. The food steamed faintly bread, broth, something swee
