THREE
ZORAYA
The lock clicks.
His footsteps fade down the corridor—heavy, measured, the sound of a predator that knows nothing can challenge it.
I wait until the sound disappears completely before I move.
The chamber is mine now. Prison or sanctuary, I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
I push away from the door and survey the space with fresh eyes. The bed dominates the room—massive and piled with furs that look soft but probably reek of whatever animal they came from. A trunk sits at the foot of it, dark wood banded with iron. A chair near the fireplace. A small table. A washbasin. The barred windows.
And the door with its heavy lock and guards posted outside.
I move to the windows first, testing the bars with both hands. The ceremonial shackles around my wrists clink softly against the iron. The bars don’t budge. Not even a little. They’re set deep into the stone, and the gaps between them are too narrow for even my shoulders to fit through.
I peer out anyway.
The drop is exactly what he said—a hundred feet straight down to jagged rocks jutting from the mountainside. No ledges. No handholds. No way down that doesn’t end with me splattered across stone.
Not the windows.
I turn to the door next. Press my ear against the thick wood and listen.
The guards are talking in low voices. Four of them, judging by the different tones. One is telling a story about a raid. Another laughs. They’re not worried about me. Why would they be? I’m one human girl with a sewing awl against an entire fortress of orc warriors.
The odds are not in my favor.
I step back and examine the hinges. Outside the room, which means I can’t get at them. The lock is heavy iron, probably needs a key the size of my hand.
Not the door either. Not yet.
I move to the trunk and flip it open.
Clothes. Dresses in dark colors—black, deep red, forest green. All rough-spun silk that’s decent quality but nothing fancy. The kind of thing a warlord’s servant would wear. Or his captive.
I pull out the black one and hold it up. It would fit. Probably. Someone took my measurements or made a good guess.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
I shove it back in the trunk and dig deeper. More dresses. A woolen cloak. Undergarments. And at the very bottom, wrapped in cloth, a sewing kit.
My hands freeze on it.
I lift it out carefully and unwrap the cloth. Thread in various colors. Needles in different sizes. A small pair of shears. A thimble. Everything a seamstress would need for basic work.
Everything I would need.
Why?
The answer is obvious. He wants me to sew. To prove I’m useful. To earn my keep or whatever bullshit justification he’s using.
I rewrap the kit and shove it back to the bottom of the trunk. Then I pull out my sewing awl from where I tucked it in my skirt pocket and hide it under the pillow instead.
The only weapon I have. Not much, but better than nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let myself think.
