The room was bigger than the one at the inn. Maybe bigger than her old one on the first floor.

  It felt untouched, as if the stillness in the air had been waiting for her. Though not welcoming her, never that. Simply holding its breath until someone stepped inside.

  She didn’t move from her place by the door. Not at first.

  Her eyes swept every corner with the same slow, disciplined cadence her pulse took whenever danger might be hiding. The places the light touched. The places it didn’t. The narrow shadows slipped behind the wardrobe, beneath the desk, under the bedframe. The line where the floor met the wall. The ceiling beams. The hinge on the wardrobe door that could creak or snap or give her away.

  She mapped the room twice before she dared to breathe evenly. Marked the wardrobe beside the entrance. The bed pushed against the far corner. The desk stationed near the window like someone had decided this room belonged to a person who deserved daylight.

  Only then did she move.

  Her steps were soundless on instinct, even though no one was here to punish noise. She crossed the room and reached for the window latch. Her fingertips brushed smooth metal, cool and steady. The glass trembled faintly beneath her touch, no more than her fingers did.

  She checked the sightlines. The garden below, the pale sprawl of paths, the line of the outer wall. Farther down, the neat rectangular plot of wolfsbane. Not as tall a drop as the tower view at Brandholt, but high enough to break something important if she fell straight. The trellis set against the window looked sturdy. Functional. A promise of safety she didn’t dare trust.

  Her gaze drifted to the bed. Quiet. Unclaimed. Still.

  A part of her wondered if it would betray her the same way the bed at the inn had, the memory still sharp as metal in her mouth. The bed didn’t answer. Beds never did.

  She didn’t open her pack. She didn’t sit. She didn’t claim anything in the room as hers.

  Instead, she lowered herself to the floor with deliberate slowness. Back pressed to the wall, the window above her shoulder. Knees drawn up just close enough to rest her arms on.

  Finally her breath loosen. Quiet, uneven, too light to be calming. It belonged to a version of herself she’d spent years burying. The younger one. The one who didn’t know how to sleep unless fear exhausted her first.

  This room was different from the first floor. But Tiran’s house still made her feel the same.

  It made her feel like the girl who lay awake fighting off the image of that man’s face each time she shut her eyes. The girl Accord had dropped in the middle of nowhere, like they’d already declared her dead and the rest was just disposal. The girl still raw from her first correction in Nexus, brain ringing with the threat of more.

  Knell’s knock broke across the memory like a blade snapping.

  “Your lunch is here. Eat what you can. Don’t force it.” Her voice filtered through the door. Flat, efficient, not unkind. Tiran’s rules echoed with it. Knell’s word in this house carried the same weight as his.

  Footsteps receded down the hall without waiting for Writ’s answer.

  Writ stayed still a moment longer, listening. Still half expecting Knell to return, not with anger, but with correction. That Writ didn’t deserve a room on the second floor. That she should go back downstairs where she belonged. That she should remember her place.

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  No footsteps returned.

  So she stood.

  She approached the door as if it might be trapped. Slowly, carefully, she turned the knob and cracked it open. Her eyes flicked rapid, automatic, scanning the hall. Empty. Quiet. Safe as something in this house could be.

  The tray waited on the floor. Two bowls, broth and egg soup. Small loaf of bread. Small cups of jam. A boiled egg. A pitcher of water. Enough food for someone with a future.

  At the corner sat a small container of salve. The one Knell always offered when she came back bruised or wounded, whether from missions or punishments. Knell must have heard about the marks.

  Her shoulders tightened without her consent. She crouched low, minimizing her shape the way she’d been trained, movements small and neat. Her hands remained steady, though her breath didn’t. She lifted the tray with precision, adjusting the angle to avoid even a whisper of sound.

  She nudged the door shut with her foot and didn’t breathe until the latch clicked home. Only then did her shoulders drop half an inch.

  She set the tray on the desk and moved the salve aside, leaving it there. She reached for a loaf of bread. Without thinking, she lowered herself back to the floor. Her body defaulting to the place where eating never drew attention.

  She stopped mid-motion. Knell didn’t like it when she ate on the floor.

  So she forced her legs up and sat on the desk chair. Stiff and upright. Trying to arrange herself into something that wouldn’t disappoint.

  Just the bread and broth. Reliable. Bland. Punishment-proof. Just what she could manage. Knell had said “if you can,” as though they already knew she might not.

  The first bite of bread tasted exactly like the piece Knell had given her three nights ago. When she’d eaten beneath the stars, Kion’s barrier sheltering them. She remembered Kion’s face, specifically, the way he’d stuffed his cheeks with bread like it was the grandest meal in existence.

  A pang struck behind her ribs. Deep. Then deeper. Each swallow worked like a lever jammed into her chest, prying loose memories she wasn’t ready to face.

  Her stomach lurched. The bread turned thick, sour, like bile pressed into shape.

  She placed the loaf back on the tray with trembling fingers.

  Broth. She could try broth.

  She raised the bowl, but as soon as the scent reached her nose, another memory flickered. The warm broth Kion had brought after she collapsed, after she’d left the egg soup untouched.

  With it came the dreams she’d formed without permission while waiting for him. A normal life, people passing in the street, lanterns glowing through windows, people who were allowed to exist.

  The bowl clattered against the tray as she dropped it, harsher than she intended.

  Her hands flew to her mouth, slapping hard enough to sting while she forced herself to swallow the mouthful she already had. She gagged once. Then again. Forced it down anyway.

  When it finally passed, a single tear slipped down her cheek.

  Stop. No tears.

  She scrubbed it away and blinked rapidly, choking the rest back.

  What now? What should she do?

  She couldn’t even follow a simple instruction. They had offered her mercy, a condition, even, “if you can.” They had expected so little from her, and she’d still failed more miserably than that.

  But what was she supposed to do if the only foods that had ever been safe were no longer safe?

  This was what happened when she forgot her place. When she let warmth into her life and got addicted. When she dared to want something normal, forgetting she was nothing more than a replaceable tool.

  She’d made herself like this.

  They needed her quiet. Useful. Predictable. And she couldn’t even manage that.

  She took a long, shaky breath. Wiped her face again until her skin felt too tight.

  Her eyes drifted to the tray. The boiled egg.

  That man had never taunted her with this. He’d waved meat, fruit, sweets under her nose, food meant for people, but never something so plain it might pass for permission.

  That fairy had never brought it either. He mostly brought spiced food. Sweet food.

  Maybe her body would accept it. Maybe her mind wouldn’t revolt. Maybe it wouldn’t mean she was pretending to be someone she wasn’t.

  She picked it up, the shell already stripped away.

  Begged, quietly, violently, for her stomach to behave. For her throat to cooperate. For her not to fail these people any more than she already had.

  She took a tiny bite.

  Chew.

  Swallow.

  Wait.

  Her throat bulged, but her stomach stayed quiet.

  So she took another bite.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Halfway through, nausea started to creep in, slow but rising.

  She stuffed the remaining half into her mouth all at once and clamped both hands over her lips, sealing them shut.

  Chew.

  She gagged.

  Her fingers pressed harder, keeping her jaw closed.

  Stop gagging.

  Chew it.

  Eat.

  She forced a swallow.

  Another gag tore through her.

  She bent forward, breath wheezing against her palms.

  Swallow it.

  No gagging.

  Swallow.

  More.

  Finish it.

  Eat.

  Obey.

  Swallow.

  Eat.

  This scene took a lot of long exhales and a few back pats, from both me and Writ.