Pain burned across Elysia's face like fire searing through flesh. Her cheeks throbbed, her skin stung, and a dull ache settled into her jaw from where the woman had struck her again—and again.
The first hit had shocked her. The second had enraged her. By the third, she had stopped reacting altogether.
But that didn't mean she wasn't angry.
Her fingers curled into fists against the rough ropes binding her wrists. She could still feel the heat of her magic buried deep inside her, just out of reach thanks to the dampening sigils carved into the stone walls.
The power was there—pulsing, demanding—but the symbols held it back, leaving her as defenseless as a common prisoner.
Elysia lifted her chin, glaring at the woman standing before her.
Her captor smirked, arms folded as she studied Elysia with a look of satisfaction, as if proud of her handiwork.
"Not so high and mighty now, are you?" the woman mused, tilting her head.
Elysia didn't reply.
