When she woke up, it was barely dawn, according to her internal clock.
Or...whatever passed for an internal clock underground.
Her hands moved without thinking, muscle memory guiding her through the motions of a simple breakfast. Knife, board, ingredients. Nothing complicated—just broth simmered with mossy roots, eggs fried in oil, bread warmed on the hot plate until the edges crisped golden.
The first mouthful nearly undid her. Salt, yolk, crunch. She chewed slowly, eyes shut, forcing herself to believe she was in Whetvale again, behind her cart, serving miners before their shifts. Not here, not in this dungeon.
She didn't stop until the bowl was empty, the plate wiped clean. For a few blessed minutes she felt human again.
Then came the knock. Not even a knock, really—more of a scrape, like nails against the door.
The mimic guard.
