Consciousness returned in fragments. Cold. Movement. Voices murmuring overhead. The acrid smell of dark magic making her nauseous.
Aria tried to move and discovered she could not. Her wrists were bound behind her back with something that burned against her skin. Magical restraints that suppressed her healing gift. Her ankles were similarly chained. A gag prevented her from speaking, though she could breathe through her nose.
She was in a wagon, she realized. Moving fast. The rocking motion and sound of wheels on rough ground told her they were far from pack lands already.
How long had she been unconscious?
Forcing her eyes to open just a sliver, Aria assessed her situation. Four people in the wagon with her. Three men and the woman who had pretended to need healing. All wore dark clothing that seemed to absorb light. All radiated that same wrongness she had sensed before.
Collectors.
"She is waking," one of the men observed. "Increase the suppression dose."
