Stone walls. Iron chains. The faint smell of torch smoke hanging in cold air. She should be nothing — F-rank, the laughingstock of every guild board in the region. Yet Vorrith wanted her specifically, and Vorrith never wants anything without reason. Seravyn hangs from the abandoned basement wall, wrists bound in runic shackles, her amber eyes cutting through the dark with a fury that doesn't belong on someone this powerless. She spits curses, demands release, threatens things she has no strength to back up. But something is stirring beneath her skin. A pressure. A heat. The runes on her chains flicker — just for a second.