Two days passed.
In the cave, time was still an invisible prison. The drops continued to fall from the ceiling in an illogical rhythm, the metallic echo of the chains still cut through the silence, and the torch had already been changed three times. But Kael didn't seem any different. His body showed no signs of real wear.
He remained kneeling, his wrists marked by enchanted iron, his mask replaced after their last verbal confrontation. And yet, it felt as if it wasn't he who was caged—it was she.
The gray-eyed woman had entered the cave every day, always at the same time, always with the same cold demeanor. But Kael noticed. Small, almost imperceptible details: the excessive tightness of her leather glove, the way her steps grew faster and faster, as if urgency was eating away at her insides.
She was under pressure.
And Kael knew why.
The witches were already moving.
He could feel it.
