The stone under my knees was damp, and the air below ground tasted faintly of mildew and despair. Every breath felt like dragging lead, every heartbeat an echo in the darkness.
I blinked awake, the single lantern’s flame casting its flickering light across the damp walls. A shadow emerged in the doorway—Maya, my maid. Her apron and gentle posture stood out starkly in this place of cruelty. In her hands, a tray with a bowl of thick soup, bread, maybe a piece of cheese.
Hope flickered in my chest.
Maya lifted the tray with trembling hands, her eyes filled with fear and pity, darting toward me. I stretched out my hands, though my arms felt weak—an ache far deeper than hunger.
“Thank you,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “Please.”
She set it down at my side and leaned in. Her fingers brushed m
