She was young. I registered that first. Young and thin in a way that was not natural, the kind of thin that came from being fed too little over too long a period. Her shirt was torn at the back and through the tear I could see the marks. Old ones, raised and pale, running across her back in lines that told me exactly what had put them there. And newer ones, not fully healed, sitting on top of the old.
My eyes went to her ankle.
A chain. Bolted to a ring in the floor. The skin around it was raw where the wolfsbane in the metal had been burning her. Not enough to incapacitate her fully. Enough to keep her weak. Enough to keep her from running. Whoever had designed this had known exactly what they were doing and had done it with care, which was the part that sat in my chest like something c
