She didn’t have a bullet hole through her chest. She wasn’t even bleeding. Whatever the base leader had shot her with, it wasn’t fatal. But it was nasty. She had a hell of a headache. She sat on the cold, stone floor. Moisture, thick and stale, hung in the air. The room she was in was hardly larger than a closet. It smelled like squishy green things and—more subtly—of reused rags that had soaked too long in a pail of dirty water. She pushed herself up. A burst of dizziness exploded inside her head, and she swayed sideways, knocking over an old mop. She caught it before it hit the ground, then set it against the wall. Its handle was cracked, but it was the closest thing to a weapon she had at the moment. Her sword and knives were gone. They’d taken her chain whip too. The walls were buzzing softly with a deep, magical bass. Her magic. Whatever was in those walls was bouncing her own magic right back at her. It was probably iron, the biggest magic reflector. It was used heavily in mage prisons.
