Holino paced the perimeter of the sealed room, his feet clicking rhythmically against the floor. Each turn at the corner of the bed was sharper, more frantic than the last. His mind was a chaotic, spinning centrifuge of calculations, pride, and rising panic. He kept his eyes strictly averted from the trays resting on the table. The meal disgusted him. The rich, heavy aroma of the spread wafted through the enclosed space, but Holino felt a thick knot of nausea tighten in his throat every time he took a breath.
He hadn't touched a single drop. He would rather watch his own body wither down to the bone and starve to death on this very floor before he ever allowed a single spoon of that targeted food to cross his lips. Consuming it felt like signing an explicit contract, an admission that he was submitting to being a biological vessel for a ruthless warlord's lineage.
