The cell was too quiet.

Elenwen sat curled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, her silver hair tangled and dulled with soot. The stone beneath her was cold, but not as cold as the silence that had settled in her bones. She hadn’t spoken in hours—not since they dragged her husband away. Not since the iron door slammed shut and left her alone with the ghosts of her kingdom.

She pressed her palm to the wall, fingertips trembling. The stone was damp. Everything was damp. Her breath came in shallow bursts, each one catching on the edge of a sob she refused to let out. If she cried again, she feared she wouldn’t stop.

“Focus,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “Count the cracks. Count the breaths. Don’t think about the fire.”

But she did. She always did.

The flames had come like a storm—unnatural, hungry, and cruel. One moment she was in the palace garden, laughing at something her husband had said, and the next, the sky was bleeding orange. The scent of burning cedar still clung to her skin, no matter how many times she scrubbed her arms raw. Her people—her home—reduced to cinders. And she, the anxious girl who once flinched at thunder, had survived.

Why?

A rustle beyond the door made her flinch. She scrambled back, heart hammering, eyes wide. Just a rat. Or so she told herself. She hated how easily her mind spun horrors from shadows.

She missed his voice. His calm. The way he’d squeeze her hand when her thoughts spiraled too fast. She didn’t know where they’d taken him. Or if he was still—

No. She couldn’t think that.

Elenwen closed her eyes and whispered the old words, the ones her mother used to sing when the world felt too big. Her voice cracked, but she sang anyway. Not for comfort. Not for hope.

But to remember she was still alive.

And that somewhere, so was he.