For a whole night, Mira sits there, still as stone. The shadows stretch around her, deep and unmoving, but she doesn't flinch.
She doesn't even blink. Her breath stays shallow in her lungs, like drawing air might break her in half.
Morning comes, and light seeps in through the cracks in the old building, but Mira remains frozen until the very last of the darkness slips away.
Only then does she finally move.
She rises slowly to her feet, joints stiff from the cold floor, limbs aching from holding herself so tightly.
Without a glance back, she walks out and heads straight for the pack house. Her steps are steady, even though her body trembles with exhaustion and dread.
As she pushes open the front door of the pack house, heads turn.
The other servants fall into hushed murmurs behind her. They whisper as if she can't hear them, as if their words can't sting.
