Pain was the first thing she knew.
It was everywhere, deep in her ribs, burning in her stomach, pounding in her skull. She tried to breathe, but her lungs felt heavy, like she was drowning.
Am I dead?
No. The pain was too sharp, too real.
She forced her eyes open.
The ceiling above her was dark, wooden, unfamiliar. The air smelled of damp earth and herbs, musty and bitter. She wasn't in the ruins of her home. She wasn't in Harrow's dungeons.
Someone had taken her.
She tried to move, but agony tore through her side. A choked sound escaped her lips.
"She wakes," a voice rasped.
Lillian turned her head. A figure emerged from the shadows—a woman, old and withered, with skin like cracked leather and eyes that gleamed like embers in the dim light. Her gray hair was wild, her fingers stained with something dark.
"Where…" Lillian's voice was barely a whisper. "Where am I?"
The woman knelt beside her, pressing a calloused hand to her forehead. "You should be dead."
Lillian swallowed. She had been dying. She remembered the blade, the cold dirt, the heat of the fire behind her.
The woman sighed, standing. "Found you in the woods. Nearly bled out." She turned to a small table, mixing something in a wooden bowl. "If you want to die, say the word. I can make it easy."
Lillian's fingers curled into the thin blanket that covered her.
Die?
No.
Not while Harrow lived.
Not while Adrian was still in his grasp.
She forced herself upright, teeth grinding against the pain. "No," she whispered. "I don't want to die."
The old woman's lips curled into something like approval. "Good." She shoved the bowl into Lillian's hands. "Drink."
Lillian hesitated, then took a sip. The liquid was bitter, burning down her throat, but she drank it all.
The woman watched her with knowing eyes. "You seek vengeance."
Lillian's grip tightened on the bowl.
"I seek justice."
The old woman laughed, low and dry. "Justice is for the living." She leaned in, her breath warm against Lillian's ear.
"But vengeance keeps the heart beating."
******