N Y X A R A
Freedom looked like one unchained wrist and a blade I was not supposed to reach.
That was how I knew it was a trap.
I woke without moving, breath shallow, lashes barely parted, the way the Guild taught us to return to consciousness when enemies wanted proof we were harmless.
My left wrist was still bound to the carved arm of a chair with a strip of dark leather threaded through silver rings. My right wrist lay free in my lap.
Free.
The word crawled under my skin like a knife-tip. This—one restraint removed, one left waiting—had intention.
The room was not a dungeon. Stone walls. Narrow windows ribbed with moonlight. A hearth gone cold. Two guards beyond the door, judging by breath and boot-shift. Moonstone sigils carved into the threshold, pale as old bone.
And on the t
