Soraya's POV
Daylight never reached the dungeon—not truly—but I could tell it was still day by the way sound carried.
Above me, the palace lived on.
Footsteps passed overhead in measured rhythms. Voices echoed faintly through stone corridors. Somewhere far above, doors opened and closed, servants hurried, nobles argued, and life continued as though nothing had happened.
As though a girl hadn't been dragged into the courtyard and whipped until the crowd had looked away.
I sat on the cold stone floor with my back against the wall, knees drawn close, arms wrapped loosely around myself. The dungeon smelled of damp earth and old iron, a place built to remind people how small they were. Sunlight slipped in only as a thin, pale line through the narrow grate high above—mocking in its distance.
My dress was still torn, stiff where blood had dried. The marks on my back were gone now, sealed away beneath skin that looked untouched.
But the pain remained.
It always did.
