Anya didn't look away from the shifting shadow. The others seemed not to notice it, or else they were too afraid to acknowledge it. She hugged her knees tighter, her heart drumming in her ears.
The shadow pulsed once, as if it breathed. Then it stretched longer, folding across the stone floor until it reached the edge of her bare feet. She almost yelped, but bit down on her lip until the taste of copper filled her mouth.
Instead of cold, the touch felt warm. Alive.
Her fear tangled with something else—curiosity, even longing. She thought of the outside world she only remembered in pieces: the smell of rain on dirt, the chatter of sparrows at dawn, her mother's humming voice. Things that felt stolen, distant.
The shadow quivered, then recoiled back toward the corner. For an instant, Anya thought she saw a pair of eyes gleam faintly within it, watching her, waiting.
She dared to whisper, so softly the others couldn't hear:
"Are you… here to help?"
Silence pressed heavy around her. But for the first time since she'd been locked inside this place, her breath came easier. The guards were predictable, the walls were rotting, and now—perhaps—something unseen was on her side.
Anya leaned back against the wall, keeping her gaze fixed on the corner. She would keep watching. Waiting. Memorizing. And when the moment came, she would be ready.