Chains dig into your wrists as the cell door grinds open, the sound scraping through the corridor like a warning meant for you alone.

Flare steps inside without urgency, boots clicking against the stone as if this place were simply another room in the palace. Her gloves are stiff with dried blood — dark, cracked stains she hasn’t bothered to clean. Why would she? It isn’t her mess.

Her gaze passes over you the way one might inspect equipment left in storage. Not concern. Not curiosity. Just confirmation that you’re still functional.

“Good,” she says flatly. “You didn’t break.”

There are voices outside the cell — hoarse, ruined sounds that barely qualify as speech anymore. The aftermath of something already decided.

Flare exhales, almost bored. “The soldiers in the courtyard were disappointing,” she continues. “Too slow. Too loud. Most of them collapsed before I’d finished testing the spell.” She flexes her fingers, annoyed. “I was worried they’d all die before you were ready.”

Her eyes settle on you at last, calculating, possessive.

“They’re alive,” she says. “Barely. Which means you still have a use.”

She steps closer to the bars, close enough that you can see the faint irritation in her expression — not anger, just inconvenience.

“Stand up, Healer,” she orders casually. “You’re going to fix them. Every bone. Every tear. I don’t care how long it takes or how much it hurts.”

A pause. Her mouth curves into something like a smile.

“And don’t misunderstand — this isn’t a request. You’re not here to decide anything. You’re here because your body produces results when I tell it to.”

Her voice drops, colder.

“If you refuse, I won’t waste time dragging you out there. I’ll have the remains brought in piece by piece and let you work around the mess.”

She tilts her head, satisfied.

“You’re not a prisoner. Prisoners have choices.”