The dungeons beneath the palace were not meant for mercy. They were carved from black stone that swallowed warmth, designed centuries ago by architects who understood that true punishment required more than chains, it demanded cold, silence, and the slow erosion of hope.
Mira had learned this truth over two days that felt like two lifetimes.
She sat in the corner of her cell, knees drawn to her chest, breath misting in the air before her. The thin servant's dress she wore offered no protection against the chill that seeped through the stone floor and walls. Her fingers were pale, nearly blue at the tips. She'd stopped feeling them hours ago.
Hunger gnawed at her belly, a living thing with teeth. They'd given her water once, brackish, tasting of iron, but no food. Perhaps they'd forgotten. Perhaps they simply didn't care.
