POV: Zina
Pain.
That was the first thing I registered when consciousness returned—sharp, unrelenting, curling like fire through my limbs. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse a brutal reminder of what had happened.
I had run.
I had fought.
And I had lost.
A dull ache in my wrists made me realize they were bound. Cold, heavy chains wrapped around them, digging into my skin. I flexed my fingers, testing their strength. The metal held firm.
I cracked my eyes open, wincing at the dim light. The room was damp, the air thick with the scent of moss and something metallic—blood. My blood? I wasn't sure.
My body ached, bruised and battered, but nothing felt broken. That was a small mercy.
I tried to move, only to find that my ankles were shackled too, connected to the stone wall behind me.
Trapped. Again.
A door creaked open.
