Yara woke slowly, as though surfacing from a tar-thick dream.
The first thing she noticed was the softness beneath her, pillows like clouds, silk sheets that smelled faintly of rosewater… and something older. Not earth or pine. Something sweet, almost rotten. The second thing she noticed was that she couldn't move.
Her wrists.
Her ankles.
She tried to sit up. The silver cords around her wrists pulsed, runes flickering to life like angry stars. They tightened—not enough to injure, just enough to promise they could. Her ankles were chained to the bedposts, slack enough for a shift in position, but not freedom.
Panic scratched at the back of her throat.
She stilled, pulse thudding. The room was too warm. Golden light pooled through gauzy curtains, spilling across a floor padded with velvet-soft rugs. The ceiling arched in polished beams, everything carved, gilded, rich.
It was beautiful.
It was a lie.
