Erma groaned, her voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. Her arms trembled as they hung from the ceiling, wrists bound in enchanted red-hot shackles that hissed against her skin. The heat had long passed pain—now it was numbness, broken only by the sting of each pulse.
Beside her, Isabel hung silent, unconscious or too drained to speak.
Erma's eyes fluttered open, catching flickers of orange and crimson light flashing through the cabin's wooden slats. The muffled sounds of battle—clashing steel, roaring fire, screams of war—grew louder.
Her dry lips parted in a breath of hope.
Rafael…? Is that you?
Had he come?
Her gaze drifted to the tall figure standing at the window—their captor.
Oliver.
He stood like a statue, bathed in the flickering light from the chaos outside, watching. His posture was calm, unnaturally still. But Erma could see his tension in the slight twitch of his jaw.
Why isn't he moving? Why isn't he joining the fight?
