Lucien woke to darkness and movement.
Not the gentle sway of a palace carriage this was rougher, faster, like whoever drove didn't care if the wheels complained. The air smelled of old cloth and oiled wood. Every bump jolted through his bones and reminded him his wrists were still bound.
He tested the ropes again, carefully.
Tight. Clean knots. Not the kind tied in panic.
Professionals.
His throat burned, and his head felt heavy, like his thoughts were wrapped in wool. Whatever they'd pressed to his face earlier still clung to him, slipping back into his blood in slow waves.
Lucien forced himself to breathe through it.
Slow in. Slow out.
He couldn't afford to be sick. He couldn't afford to be loud in the wrong way. He couldn't afford to give them anything they could use.
