She was dragged to the brig, its iron bars cold and thick, the door slamming shut behind her, and she sank to the cold stone floor, the sack pulled off her head.
She didn't fight, didn't scream, just curled into a ball, her shoulders shaking with fake sobs,
as she let her golden mana seep out in the tiniest trickle—enough for Ren to track, not enough for the cultists to detect.
She counted the cultists as they passed, memorized the runes on their blades, noted the way the ship sailed north, into the mist, toward the cove Mama Mae had spoken of.
Day blurred into dusk, and dusk bled into a cold, fog‑shrouded night.
She listened to the cultists' chants, counted their patrols, memorized their routines—two full cycles of light and dark, enough to learn their patterns, their timetables, their quiet prayers to the dark Master in the cove.
She did not eat. She did not sleep deeply.
