Senna's words hung in the suffocating dark, sharp and cold as shards of glass. You have been here less than an hour, and you have already broken both.
Isadora stood frozen, the ghost of the guard's bruising grip still aching on her arm. The finality of the bolted door was a physical weight in her chest, pressing the air from her lungs. She had thought the first cell was the bottom of the world, but this—this was a deeper, more personal hell. One with a name and a set of rules she had apparently already failed.
"Broken them?" Isadora's voice was a raw whisper, barely her own.
Senna didn't move from her huddled position on the thin mattress. In the gloom, her fiery hair was a splash of dying embers. "You caught his eye," she rasped, the words devoid of pity. "Varroque. He named you. He spoke to you alone. That's his brand. He marks the ones he finds interesting."
