The room was too quiet.

Deliyah sat stiffly on the edge of an ornate velvet chair, her back straight as a blade, hands folded in her lap like she'd been taught when punished. The black dress clung to her like a second skin, soft, flowing, elegant. Someone else might have found it beautiful. She almost hated it. It wasn't armor, that she was used to.

It didn't carry the weight of steel or the sharp lines she was used to. It brushed against her skin like a whisper, and yet it screamed weakness. Vulnerability. Her legs, scarred and trembling beneath the long skirt, felt exposed. The knee stabilizer hissed faintly every time she shifted, the only familiar sound in a place that smelled too clean, too perfumed, too safe to be real.

She eyed the room like a trap: polished wood floors, silk curtains, crystal fixtures. Too many mirrors. Too much reflection. The butler - an old man with trembling hands and kind, lying eyes - had told her earlier: "Your medicine will be provided, Miss. Whether you work or not. The master has given his word."

His word. She almost laughed. Deliyah knew what happened when masters lost interest. Words broke. Promises vanished. Chains reappeared. She wasn't a fool. If she couldn't be useful, she'd be sold again - maybe not as a fighter, but a curiosity, a relic. A broken thing.

She kept her face still. Not blank, still. Blankness could be mistaken for defiance. Stillness was safer. Harder to read. Her eyes flicked toward the fireplace. No flames. Just shadows. She imagined drawing the light from the air, forming it into a sharp needle, a flash, old habits rising in her fingers. But there was no need. Not yet. She inhaled slowly, letting the weight of the room settle on her shoulders.

And then. The door creaked open. Deliyah didn't move. She simply waited. Silent. Watching. Because prey that moves too soon always dies first. Her new owner, new master, was now standing in the doorframe.