The cell was colder than she expected.
Not a dungeon exactly—too modern for that. It was more like a reinforced bunker. Walls of smooth, gray stone. A steel door with no handle on her side. A single, dim light above her that buzzed faintly.
Opal sat on the narrow cot in the corner, knees tucked to her chest. Her thoughts were a blur—of Derek, of James, of Caesar's face when he'd threatened to kill them both.
How had it come to this?
The door hissed open.
A woman stepped in—tall, sharply dressed in a long black coat. Her eyes were gold.
Hybrid.
"You're the witch-killer," the woman said, not unkindly. "I'm Anara. I'll be your liaison for the Jury."
Opal didn't answer.
Anara took a clipboard from under her arm. "Your trial begins in three days. Until then, you'll be briefed on the process and permitted limited contact with outside parties—one message to your family. No more."
Opal looked up. "And if I don't cooperate?"
Anara's expression remained neutral. "Then you die."
A silence stretched between them.
Anara exhaled. "You're not the first to face the Jury. Some have walked free. Most don't. But if there's one thing they hate more than a murderer—it's a coward."
Opal straightened.
"I'm not a coward."
Anara tilted her head. "Then maybe you'll survive."
She left without another word, leaving Opal in silence once more.
Three days.
Three days to prepare for the most dangerous trial of her life—against people who already wanted her dead, and a former lover who might just let them kill her.