Not voices. Not magic. Just the slow, unending drip of water onto stone — a rhythm that had replaced time.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Sky opened his eyes to darkness. His breath shuddered out of him, leaving the taste of iron and smoke on his tongue.
The torches along the walls had burned to stubs hours ago — or maybe days. It didn't matter anymore.
Down here, beneath the smuggler fortress, even the concept of dawn had been stripped from him.
Chains rasped when he moved. The runes etched along their links flared dimly, reacting to his heartbeat. Blue lines crawled up his wrists and arms, branding him in light that wasn't his own.
Every pulse of it was a warning: Try to change, and die.
His body had learned obedience. His mind had not.
He stared up at the ceiling — a low arch of black stone dripping condensation — and imagined the sky beyond it. He used to know every color it could wear. The pale silver of morning.
