The bed underneath me is uncomfortable, never mind it's unreasonable too. Dark fabric, heavy and cool, embroidered along every hem with something I can feel beneath my fingertips without seeing clearly. Beside me: a table bearing a ceramic basin, a covered tray, a row of small glass bottles sealed with wax. Against the far wall: a wardrobe twice my height, its doors carved with interlocking knotwork. A window with curtains thecolor of dried blood, half-drawn, pale light pressing through the gap like something patient.
It's not my window either.
I sit up. My shoulder detonates. My leg answers immediately. I get upright anyway, stay there with my breath locked between my teeth, and take proper stock — bandaged shoulder, bandaged palm, a gown that belongs to someone else, and my satchel sitting on the table beside the basin like it's been waiting.
Someone kept it. Someone carried it here. Someone removed my clothes.
The door is twelve feet away. The silence in this room is absolute as stone-walled quiet as can be, and the fabric beneath me costs more than everything I own, and I have arrived — with the clarity of someone who has spent her life recognizing when she's lost control of a situation — at the only reasonable conclusion.
Dark elf estate. I'm in one of those estates. Every story I'd ever heard about them arrives at once.
Stone halls beneath mountains. Noble houses where guests disappeared quietly and servants learned not to ask where they had gone. Lords who treated favors like contracts and contracts like chains. Human traders returning from the eastern territories with their eyes fixed too carefully ahead whenever someone mentioned Mournhold.
My village told stories about dark elves the way people tell stories about storms at sea — with the understanding that surviving one did not mean understanding it. And now I am in one of their beds wearing someone else's clothes with my injuries neatly bandaged by hands I never gave permission to touch me.
My pulse kicks harder, and I look to the door again.
"You've been watching the door for several seconds."
I turn toward the voice and find a dark elf woman seated beside the window in a low chair I hadn't noticed. Pale lavender eyes. Silver-blue hair tucked beneath layered veils. She watches me with ease.
"Who are you?" I ask. My throat is dry.
"Nyssara. Estate physician." She rises, calmly, moving to the table. "I set the shoulder, closed the palm, and assessed the leg. No fractures. You're fortunate." She lifts the cloth from the tray. Food, neatly arranged. "You should eat before you try whatever you're planning."
"I'm not planning anything."
Her expression suggests she finds that unconvincing.
"Am I being held here?" I ask.
She sets the cloth down and meets my eyes. "The lord's instruction was that no one restrict your movement. Or harm you." A slight pause measured in candlelight. "You may leave if you choose to. I wouldn't recommend it medically, but I'm a physician, not a guard."
That is not quite a yes. It is, however, enough.
I get to my feet, grab my bag checking for the root, and walk out the door. I'm fifteen feet down the corridor before my leg lodges its formal complaint. Not a fall, exactly because I catch the wall with my uninjured hand, and hold there with my forehead nearly brushing the surface. The stitches pull and my body disapproves, especially in my arm. I breathe, push off, and keep moving.
There will be an entrance hall. Every estate has one. If I can reach it, find a servant, find a door that opens onto something that isn't carved stone and antler iron —
"You have no shoes."
I don't stop. "I'll manage."
Footsteps behind me, slowly paced and even. "The floor in the east corridor is flagstone. Cold enough to be unpleasant, even for someone with functional feet."
"Then I'll be unpleasantly cold."
"Your leg is going to give before you reach the stairs."
She's right. It gives. My knee simply stops cooperating, and I extend my arm for the wall, but I find his hand there instead, closing around me and pulling me back to upright with a thoroughness that suggests the outcome was never in question.
I wrench free and turn around.
He's closer than memory prepared me for. Taller. The silver rune scars catch the corridor light, and the crimson eyes — not cold exactly, just not soft, a gaze that observes and categorizes.
"I'm leaving," I tell him.
"You're listing to the left."
