She felt wrung-out, stretched thin, hollow. Reldamar had not laid a single violent finger on her since her capture, but he hadn’t exactly been lavish with niceties like water, food, and rest. Were it not for the boy, Artus, and his constant worry over her well-being, she would be worse off, for certain. As it was, she could scarcely climb the stairs to the villain’s flat without her knees wobbling. She did not let them wobble, though. She would not let Reldamar see her as weak. The hood came off. She was standing in the front hall of a lavishly appointed flat—Akrallian provincial in style, elaborate crown moldings and sunny yellow wallpaper; a vaulted ceiling with a mageglass chandelier. She might have made a sarcastic remark—she wanted to—but her tongue felt thick in her mouth and she was so tired she needed all of her attention to remain upright. Reldamar had his back to her. She saw his shoulders sag as the door closed behind them both—shut by a serving specter, no doubt.
