The dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced through the window of the cottage, mocking Lin Wan with their freedom. She sat on a low stool, her hands propped under her jaw, letting out a heavy sigh for the umpteenth time that morning.
The sound echoed in the quiet room, a small protest against the wall of obsidian-gold protection that had surrounded her for the last five days.
Long Zhan was a meticulous jailer. He didn't call it imprisonment, of course; he called it "preservation."
For the first three days after her collapse, he hadn't even allowed her feet to touch the floor, excluding when she had to answer the call of nature, don't even talk about that.
He had been adamant that she remain on the furs, her only movement being the occasional shift to a more comfortable position.
