Elara
The prison learned her rhythm before she learned its mercy.
Stone breathed here—not alive, not dead, but listening. Every sigil etched into the walls hummed in quiet conversation with the restraints on her wrists, measuring, adapting, tightening whenever she pushed too hard.
They wanted her exhausted.
They wanted her desperate.
They did not expect her to fall in love with the quiet moments instead.
Elara learned to count her breaths. Learned how to pull power inward until it settled low and tight beneath her ribs, no longer wild, no longer pleading. When the pain came—and it always came—she folded it into herself like kindling.
The cost was blood.
The first time she tried to break a restraint deliberately, it sliced her palm open from the inside. Not metal. Not magic. Her own power had turned sharp.
She bit back a scream and let it happen.
