The silence that follows doesn’t stretch—it locks. I feel it then, not just tension but something more rigid, something structural.
A boundary.
Verr doesn’t move.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Because he can’t.
That realization settles in fast, sharp enough that it clears everything else out of the way.
I stop struggling.
Not surrender.
Adjustment.
I turn my head, finding him through the line of bodies between us, holding his gaze.
“You knew this might happen,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens.
“Yes.”
“And you brought me here anyway.”
“I wasn’t leaving you out there.”
“I know.”
That’s not what this is about.
The guards start pulling me back, their grip shifting just enough to guide instead of drag, forcing me into motion whether I want it or not.
“Verr,” I say.
He looks at me fully now, and for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s something in his expression that isn’t contained.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Something sharper.
More dangerous.
“I’ll get you out,” he says, the words low enough that they’re meant only for me.
I believe him.
That’s the problem.
“Then don’t take too long,” I reply, letting the corner of my mouth lift just enough to make it look like I’m not already calculating how much time I actually have.
They pull me away before he can answer.
The cell is colderthan I expect, not damp or rotting, just precise in its construction, the stone cut smooth and deliberate, built to hold rather than decay. The air carries almost no scent, just a faint trace of metal and dust, and the silence settles differently here, not empty but contained, like sound itself has nowhere to go.
