She let the words wash over her, a meaningless stream of sound that was more about the cadence than the content. Fiadh's chatter was a constant, soothing presence in the oppressive silence of the palace, a small, human connection in a world that felt increasingly alien and hostile.
But her mind was elsewhere.
It was in the dungeons, in the dark, damp chambers where the cook was waiting for Donncahd's "justice."
It was in the town square, where a crowd would gather to watch the spectacle, their faces a mix of fear and morbid fascination.
It was on the execution platform, where a man's life would be extinguished for a crime he may or may not have anything to do with.
And it was in her own room, where a dark, insidious magic had almost claimed her life, a magic whose wielder was still out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for its next opportunity.
She couldn't just lie here and do nothing.
