🕊️ Chapter 2 — Bread, Chains, and Rain
> The chains were lighter now. Not gone — never gone — but lighter.
The carriage rattled over the cobblestones that led away from Dragon Morath, the heart of the empire. Behind them rose black towers and banners of molten gold, flapping against a gray, weeping sky. Ahead stretched open fields burned dry by dragonfire and years of war.
Zamira sat opposite Prince Alec, wrists shackled to the iron ring beside her. His armor gleamed softly even in the dim light — a halo trapped in steel. She wondered if he ever dirtied it, or if people cleaned the world for him before he touched it.
For hours, neither of them spoke. The carriage creaked, and the guards' voices faded behind the patter of rain. Every bounce of the wheels jarred her bruises, a dull reminder that she was being "freed."
"Do you remember what sunlight feels like?" Alec asked at last.
She didn't turn to him. "It burns the same."
He smiled — gentle, almost rehearsed. "You'll get used to it again."
"Like I got used to cages?"
His hands twitched, and the bread he was holding cracked. He tore it in half, offering her the larger piece.
"Eat. It's not poisoned."
"Didn't say it was."
"Then why are you staring at it like it's a blade?"
"Because blades are honest."
The rain deepened, drumming against the roof like heartbeats. At last, she took the bread — not out of trust, but defiance. It was dry, tasteless, but her body thanked her anyway.
"You'll be safe in Qasr al-Jinnah," he said quietly. "It's a sanctuary. The elves are rebuilding."
"And you'll be their hero."
"Peace doesn't need heroes, Zamira. Just people who stop fighting."
She leaned her head against the window, watching lightning cut the sky open. "Then you should've left me in the camp."
He said nothing after that.
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The journey took three days.
Through scorched plains where dragon bones jutted like forgotten spears; through ruined villages, their wells poisoned by ash. They crossed bridges carved from the ribs of old wyverns, passed through towns where children stared at her from behind their mothers' skirts — the girl in chains, the monster who once led the rebellion.
On the second night, she dreamed of cages. On the third, she dreamed of fire that didn't burn.
When the walls of Qasr al-Jinnah finally rose from the horizon — white stone glimmering against the mist — she almost laughed. Haven, they called it. The place built by treaties, not truth.
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They didn't take her to a cell.
Instead, guards escorted her into a marble bath chamber lined with dragon-glass lanterns. Steam rolled over her skin as she stood under the water, the first clean water she'd touched in years. It burned at first, then bled warmth into her bones. The camp had left its ghosts in her pores, and each drop washed another one away.
When she finally stepped out, a folded outfit waited: a dark red and black tunic, soft but weighted at the shoulders; black boots that fit perfectly; and a thin silver band that locked around her wrist — "for identification," they said.
The mark of peace. The leash of mercy.
She stared at her reflection in the polished metal of the basin. The girl staring back looked older, sharper. Like a shadow carved into flesh.
A knock came at the door.
"The Prince requests your presence," said the guard.
Zamira smirked faintly. "Of course he does."
She followed them down the torch-lit hallways. Beyond the doors waited Qasr al-Jinnah itself — the so-called Place of Haven. Elves and dragonborn crossed the courtyards, smiling too tightly, speaking too softly.
It was all so peaceful.
So carefully fake.
Zamira adjusted her tunic, straightened her spine, and whispered under her breath:
"If this is freedom, it still smells like smoke."
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