Elara POV
By late morning, the floor had dried, leaving a pale white crust where the water had run. The air still smelled of metal and smoke—burned through, used up. I sat on the edge of the cot, blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and watched sunlight crawl across the wall. The light didn't reach far; it stopped at the place where the stone had cracked.
The marks on my hands were quiet now. The thirteenth one no longer glowed, but it throbbed under the skin, slow and stubborn. When I pressed my palms together, the bruised skin pulsed like something alive. I told myself the reflection had been a dream. That my mother's voice hadn't really spoken. But the silence that followed felt like waiting—for her to answer again.
Outside the door, two guards whispered. One said my name. The other called me witch girl. The word slid under my ribs, soft as a blade. I didn't flinch. I'd been called worse by people who smiled while saying it.
