THE AFTERMATH

Lyra spent her first full day in captivity searching for exits.

The room was a box — twelve feet by ten, stone walls, no windows, one heavy door that wouldn't budge when she pushed. She'd checked every stone, every seam, every possible weakness. The walls were solid. The ceiling was solid. The floor was solid.

She sat back on the bed and tried to think like Kaelen. He was smart — she could feel that through the Thread, the constant background hum of an analytical mind always working. He'd put her somewhere secure but not cruel. The bed was comfortable. The food was decent. He wasn't trying to break her, just contain her.

The Thread pulsed between them, a constant reminder of her new reality. She could feel his location somewhere above and to the east — probably his chambers. His emotions filtered through like radio static: concentration, occasional frustration, underlying anxiety. And something else, something she didn't want to name. Curiosity? Interest?

"Stop it," she muttered, though she wasn't sure if she was talking to him or herself.

The door opened mid-afternoon. Lyra tensed, ready to attack, but it was just a servant — a young woman with nervous eyes who set down a tray of food and fresh clothing without meeting Lyra's gaze. The door closed before Lyra could say a word.

The clothes were simple but well-made: dark trousers, a gray tunic, soft boots that fit perfectly. Lyra changed mechanically, noting that the new outfit would blend well in palace corridors if she did find a way out. Was that intentional? Did Kaelen think of everything?

She ate while planning. The Thread connected them — that meant he could probably sense her general location and emotional state. But could he sense her specific thoughts? Her plans? She tested it, focusing intensely on the image of herself punching him in the face. No reaction came through the bond. Good. Specific intentions seemed private.