The stone is wet beneath her bare feet—damp, cold, the kind that creeps past skin and into bone. A faint shiver runs through her, not from fear, but from how the chill feels like it's remembering her.
The chain clinks again as it's undone. Not fully—not freedom—but loosened just enough to tease. It dangles from her wrist like a cruel memory, heavy and cold. Still there. Still hers.
Lara steps forward. Silent. Not a word, not a glance toward the guards. Just a flick of her fingers, sharp and final. The soldiers hesitate for a moment before obeying. The cell door groans shut behind them with a sound like the throat of something dying.
Then, stillness.
The air doesn't move. Thick. Watching. Like the walls are holding their breath, listening.
"Sit," Lara says at last, motioning toward the only chair in the room. It's old. Wooden. Splintered at the edges, leaning slightly to one side as if it's tired of standing.
