Chapter Twenty-Eight-The Mirror and the Man
One Month Later
Stone sweated in the dark.
Moisture bled down the dungeon walls in thin veins, gathering at the floor where Evandra knelt, shackled to an iron ring. The air tasted of rust and damp—old blood and older secrets—and every breath dragged across her ribs like broken glass. Silver-threaded rope bit her wrists; wolfsbane burned faintly where it brushed her skin. Sage prowled inside her, snarling and useless, a caged storm.
A boot scraped the flagstones.
“Where has Pearl Pack been keeping the Mirror of Souls?” the man asked, voice low and unhurried, like a blade being drawn very slowly.
Evandra lifted her chin. Her lip was split; when she smiled, it stung like fire. “I’ve told you. I don’t know of any mirror.”
The fist came fast, h
