Chapter 43

Olivia Martins

Pain brought me back.

A slow, throbbing ache bloomed in my skull like something had cracked open inside. My eyelids were heavy, but when I forced them apart, the world swam: darkness, flickering light, the tang of smoke, and… blood.

I was upright. Tied.

My arms were strapped to the sides of a chair with something rough and tight—rope, maybe, or leather—and my legs were bound at the ankles. Panic hit me fast and sharp, and I twisted, but the bindings didn’t budge.

Then the burn in my hand made me freeze.

I looked down.

A thin line of blood ran from a fresh cut across my palm, dripping steadily into a silver goblet on the floor. My stomach flipped. The sight of my own blood didn’t scare me, but the reason behind it did. It hadn’t been to hurt me, not really. It was almost like the goblet was there to hold my spilled blood, which was absurd. After all, what use could my blood possibly be?

I looked up.

Bridget s