The place Lysara took her did not look like a prison.
That was the first cruelty.
Amaya stood at the center of a vast circular chamber carved from pale stone that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it. The ceiling arched impossibly high, etched with concentric runes that pulsed softly—like a breathing thing. Water flowed in thin channels along the floor, whispering instead of splashing.
No bars. No chains. No guards.
Just silence.
Lysara watched her from the edge of the circle, hands folded behind her back.
"You're wondering where the locks are," she said lightly.
Amaya didn't respond.
Her chest still ached where Calix's warmth should have been. The bond hadn't vanished—but it had stretched, thin and screaming, like a nerve pulled too far.
She pressed her palm to the center of her sternum, grounding herself.
"I didn't come here to admire architecture," Amaya said flatly. "What do you want from me?"
Lysara smiled. "Control."
"At least you're consistent."
