LYRIA
They don’t tie my hands tight.
That’s the first mistake.
Not loose enough to slip free—not yet—but loose enough that I can feel the slack when I flex my fingers slowly, testing the give in the rope without drawing attention. The fibers bite into my skin when I move too much, rough and damp from use, but they aren’t new, and they aren’t careful.
I catalog that.
The second mistake is where they put me.
Not in the center.
Not fully isolated.
Off to the side of the main structure, where I can hear more than they probably intend me to. Voices carry differently here, slipping through the gaps in the walls and the uneven seams where wood meets hide, and if I tilt my head just right, I can track movement outside by the shift in sound alone.
Boots.
Weight.
Direction.
They think I’m waiting.
I’m not.
I sit with my back against the support beam, wrists bound in front of me, head slightly lowered like I’ve given up trying to follow everything happening around me. My breathing stays steady, slow enough to look calm, even as I let my eyes move through the space without turning my head.
One guard at the entrance.
Another just outside—he shifts every few minutes, scraping his heel against the dirt in the same uneven rhythm.
Further out?—
More.
Not random.
Layered.
Krago doesn’t trust the obvious.
Good.
Neither do I.
The flap at the entrance shifts, and the light changes just enough to tell me someone’s stepped in before I hear the boots.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Of course.
I don’t look up immediately.
Let him step closer.
