It was morning, and sunlight slipped into the room.
But it brought no comfort to Maravelle, who had hardly slept a wink all night.
She sat straight in the chair, her back rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at nothing.
She looked more like a queen waiting for tea in a palace garden than a prisoner trapped in the sorcerer's keep.
A young maid stepped inside with her head bowed.
She carried a tray with a bowl of hot broth and thin flatbread wrapped in cloth.
Quietly, she set the tray on the small table.
Then she lifted her eyes at last and turned to Maravelle.
"Your meal is served," she said quietly and slipped out of the chamber, leaving Maravelle alone again.
She didn't look at the food. She kept her gaze fixed on the wall ahead, as if staring hard enough might crack it open and show her a way out.
Maravelle's voice trembled with anger. "You… you traitor."
