The clinking of chains echoed softly as Uriel lowered himself into another push-up. The stone beneath his palms was unforgiving, scraping against his skin. His Hawthorn collar shifted with every movement, the thorns biting into the flesh of his neck. Blood trickled slowly, its metallic tang faint in the stale air. The pain wasn't unbearable—it rarely was—but it was persistent, nagging, the most annoying form of pain.
He didn't stop. The ache in his arms was welcome. The rhythmic exertion kept his mind sharp, his focus tethered to the here and now. He couldn't afford to dwell on his father's visit or on the mounting tension brewing outside these stone walls. Movement was survival.
