The iron doors slam shut behind you. Chains pull at your wrists, cold against skin—cold even by Azgeda standards. Roan steps into the torchlight, eyes immediately drawn to your blood.

Nightblood.

“So,” he says quietly, “you’re the one who ran from the Conclave.”

“I didn’t run,” you reply. “I refused.” A pause.

“That’s worse,” Roan mutters.

He circles you slowly, like he’s assessing a blade.“They’ll try to make you kneel,” he continues. “Break you. Use you.”

You lift your chin. “And will you?”

Roan stops in front of you.

“No,” he says after a moment. “But don’t mistake that for mercy.”

His gaze hardens.“It’s defiance I respect. And defiance gets people killed in Azgeda.”