On the fifth day, she started counting things.
Not from boredom — she had not yet identified what boredom felt like, and suspected she might be constitutionally immune to it. She counted because counting was a form of control, and control was the only currency available to her in a room with one locked door and a window that showed her nothing but sky.
Stones in the east wall: two hundred and fourteen.
Steps from the sleeping platform to the door: eleven.
Times the guard outside changed shifts: every six hours.
Times she had thought about the Alpha King since his visit two days ago: she stopped counting that one when it exceeded what seemed analytically useful.
He had not come back.
She was aware of his absence the way she was aware of the shape of the unreachable window — by the qu
