The women began to compose themselves, an almost imperceptible movement taking over the room: the fear that had kept them immobile until then transformed into a practical urgency. The scarred woman who had spoken earlier—whose name was Maris, according to the others—approached Ester with unsteady steps, her eyes still swollen from crying, but with a lucidity that came from years of necessity.
"There's more," she whispered, as if confessing a dangerous secret. "He kept things. Places the guards didn't even know about."
Ester tilted her head, assessing. Damon watched Maris's face, searching for any sign of lying. There was none; only fatigue and a short, hard determination.
"Show me," Ester said.
