I reach for his hand, but mine is clumsy on his. His skin is warm and I relish its closeness. The world is a haze, but at least I’m not in here alone. I’m here, I try to say, but the world fades away.

Drips from the rocky ceiling of my cell are cold on my nose. Where am I? Where is everyone? I listen for sounds of the battle but hear only the plop of water. Jhamal sewing my wounds back together, my hand touching his, people shoving food through the bars… wisps of memories nudge me.

The battle was a long time ago.

I close my eyes and see an unfamiliar face with long eyelashes hovering over me. I search for more meaning, what happened, when and how exactly I got in here, but find nothing. Last I remember, I was fighting the Chancellor and then I wasn’t. I blink and see long eyelashes again, but the image is void of any meaning I can latch on to.

I blink again, and try to make more sense of my surroundings. Thick lead bars hold us in the craggy cell and fire torches bob just outside. I know we’re beneath the Central District because of the smell, the walls, and the people who bring us food wear the Chancellor’s pin with his profile in the center, Yiyo, sunrays, and a jpango tree etched around the design. I’d know the symbol anywhere. It’s minted on the money, emblazoned on the buildings, carved into the naked cover of every book. The Chancellor stamped his seal on everything in Ghizon like a dog marking a tree.

How long have we been in here? I tug at the fuzzy purple strand on my neck, its charm still missing. Tasha. She’s probably worried sick. I try again to sit up on shaky elbows, but my insides feel like they’ve been smashed with a hammer. A smooth hand caresses my cheek and I flinch.

Jhamal’s face solidifies in focus, his brows knit.

“What have they done to me?” I try to say, but it comes out a wheezing rasp.

“My Queen,” he says. “Can you hear me?”

“I can,” I try to say, but again, nothing, so I nod instead.

“You can hear me! I’m here.” He reaches for my hand, but I run my fingers across my stitches, searching for some meaning, a better sense of what happened between the battle and here.

“Thank you.” That time it comes out raspy but audible. I try to lift my arms, but the familiar weight of the armor is as heavy as lead.