N Y X A R A
If the scar was a cage, I would cut it out—even if I had to carve down to bone to find where the bars ended.
The thought came cleanly. Calmly. The way every dangerous decision did.
Beyond the guest-chamber door, Kaelor’s footsteps faded down the corridor. He had not answered my accusation with an order or entered to demand gratitude for trading chains for curtains. That unsettled me more than anger would have.
Ashmoore would answer in blood.
The vow lodged beneath my ribs, protection sharpened close enough to possession. Men had called cages kindness before. The Guild had made an art of it.
I pushed upright, ignoring the pull beneath my bandages, and assessed the room.
One narrow window, barred outside. Two guards beyond the door, their breathing slightly out of rhythm.
