"Damn you all..."
The laughter faded slowly, not because it had run its course, but because her body could no longer sustain it.
What remained was the echo—thin, ragged, clinging to the stone like damp. A ghost of sound that lingered in the corners, unwilling to fully die.
Then silence followed.
Heavy.
Close.
The kind of silence that did not soothe, only waited. It pressed against her ears, filled the spaces between her thoughts, made every small sound—the drip of water, the creak of chains, her own shallow breathing—feel enormous.
Liora's head sagged forward. Strands of hair fell across her face, sticking where sweat and blood had dried into a brittle crust. The strands smelled of copper and salt. Her breath came shallow and uneven, each inhale a deliberate negotiation with ribs that felt cracked and lungs that burned. She had to remind her body, moment by moment, how to take the next one.
The chamber settled around her again.
Drip.
Pause.
Drip.
