The silk on Yara's wrists gleamed like spider thread in the candlelight.
Warm against her skin — not from the air, but from the magic coiling inside it. When she moved too fast, it snapped tight. Not enough to bruise, but enough to warn. Enough to remind her she was prey on a leash.
It had grown overnight. She noticed when they dragged her from the bed to the table — the threads lengthening like obedient serpents, swaying with her steps. That was when she understood: the silk was alive. And it was listening to him.
They'd dressed her in crimson silk, sleeveless, slit high on the thigh. It clung like a brand. The ghost of his last slap still burned across her cheek, and every flex of her jaw sent pain down her neck.
The table itself was absurd — candlelit, laden with roast pheasant, sugared fruit, and crystal decanters of wine. The scent of cinnamon glaze and citrus soured in her stomach. She hadn't eaten since… since she'd been brought here. Before she'd last been conscious.
