Two soldiers stepped forward, snapping chains on her hand. Lara didn't make a sound. When one of the guards tried to drag her, she jerked her wrist free.
"I can walk," she said flatly.
Mara's smile returned—small, poisonous. "Good. You'll need that pride where you're going."
As Lara was led out, Mara called after her, voice echoing through the stone corridor. "Enjoy the banquet, Cousin. It will be… your last supper as a free woman. Even if Alaric could save you, let's see how he will despise you afterward."
...
In the bathing chamber, steam curled through the air, thick with the scent of lavender oils and rose petals. The opulence of the chamber was almost mocking—gold basins, polished marble floors, silken towels embroidered with the Zuran imperial crest.
Lara stood motionless as attendants stripped away her torn garments. The water was hot, burning her skin, but she didn't flinch. The women whispered among themselves, glancing at her with a mix of pity and awe.
