The sound of footsteps broke through my thoughts. They were slower and hesitant.
I sat up from the mattress, wiping my face with the sleeve of my dress. My muscles ached, but I forced myself to sit straight. If anyone came to mock me, they wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing me broken.
Two guards approached the bars—the same ones from earlier. But something about their posture had changed; they looked less rigid and more uncertain. One of them, the younger one with a scar under his right eye, avoided meeting my gaze.
They didn't speak right away. Instead, the older one slid a tray through the narrow slit beneath the bars. Steam rose from a bowl of warm broth and a hunk of bread beside it.
My stomach grumbled. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was.
But my eyes stayed locked on the tray of food before locking with them. "You're feeding me now?" I asked quietly, suspicion lacing my voice.
The older one shrugged. "Orders."
