No. Sword work.
This woman's fought.
She sets the tray on the chest with a decisivethunk. "Eat. You look half-dead."
I blink at her. At the tray.
There's bread—actual bread, crusty and golden. Cheese. Sliced apples. A bowl of something that steams and smells like heaven: stew, rich with herbs I can identify even from here. Thyme. Rosemary. A touch of sage.
My stomach clenches so hard it hurts.
"I'm Matron Eska," the woman says when I don't move. "I run this place. You need something, you ask me. You cause trouble, you answer to me. Clear?"
"I—yes. Thank you."
She snorts, and it's not unkind. Just... blunt. "Don't thank me yet. You're in a fortress full of soldiers who've been fighting the things in the Blackwood for years. Most of them don't trust easy, and they sure as hell don't trust witches." She pins me with a look. "Can't blame them, either. Last witch that came through here cursed three men before we figured out what she was."
My mouth goes dry. "I won't—I would never—"
"I know." Eska's expression softens. Barely. "I've got eyes. You're not that kind. But they don't know that yet, so keep your head down and don't give them reasons." She gestures to the tray. "Eat. Then get dressed. There's clothes in the chest. Lord Vorak says you're not to be idle."
She's halfway to the door before I find my voice.
"Wait—what does that mean? Not idle?"
Eska glances back, one eyebrow raised. "Means he doesn't want you sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself. Means you're here for thirty days, you might as well be useful." She shrugs. "Find something to do. Make yourself valuable. Or don't. Up to you."
Then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
I stare at the tray.
Make yourself valuable.
Right. Because if I'm not useful, what happens when the thirty days are up?
I eat because I'm starving and because refusing food is how you die slowly. The stew is venison, rich and hot and seasoned with a skill that speaks to a cook who knows their trade. I have to force myself not to gulp it down like an animal. The breadis fresh—baked this morning, probably. The cheese is sharp and creamy.
It's the best meal I've had in weeks.
Probably a trick. Fatten the lamb before slaughter.
Stop it.
I finish every bite, then wash my face and hands in the basin by the window. The water's cold but clean.
Then I open the chest.
Inside: practical clothes. A wool dress in deep gray, well-made and warm. A linen shift. Thick stockings. Even a pair of soft leather shoes that look about my size.
Someone thought about this. Someonecaredenough to find clothes that would fit.
Eska? Or...
I don't let myself finish that thought.
I dress quickly, fingers fumbling with laces I haven't tied in days. Braid my hair with shaking hands. Look at myself in the small, warped mirror on the wall.
I look... almost human again.
