The room they gave her was not locked.
That was the first insult.
Because it meant this was meant to look like choice.
Not confinement.
Not punishment.
Not the same silent corridor Luca had once walked traitors through when the council decided exile was cleaner than bloodshed.
He remembered those mornings.
They always began before dawn.
Always ended at the outer ridge.
Always with someone pretending dignity could survive being escorted out of a life that no longer wanted them.
Freedom, they had called it then.
Hilarious.
Elara stood by the narrow window, fingers resting against the cold pane that had been reinforced recently enough the bolts still smelled of oil.
No bars.
Just thicker glass.
Subtle.
Civilized.
Disgusting.
"You will leave at dawn," Luca said behind her.
Her shoulders stiffened.
"That's not a request, is it."
"No."
"Good," she muttered. "Because I wasn't going to pretend."
Silence stretched.
Heavy.
Measured.
