"Is she dead or just ugly?" the maid sneered, spitting the words like a coin.
"Ugly enough to bury," another laughed. "Kick her. Make sure."
A boot slammed into my ribs. Pain flared and I counted it like a diagnosis.
"Breath?" the first maid asked, loud and cruel.
I found the pulse at my wrist with two fingers, slow and shallow, the rhythm off by a notch. Poison ticked through the skin—bitter, metallic. I tasted it in the back of my throat even though I hadn't swallowed anything.
"She's breathing," a third voice said, softer, surprised. "Barely."
"Then she can die where she lies," the maid said. "Valentina wants no witnesses. Leave the body by the ridge and move."
They started cataloging excuses like merchants counting coins.
"Wrap her in silk," one ordered. "No one sniffs here until the moon rises."
They dragged at my sleeve. Their hands smelled of oil and arrogance. They used me like a broken toy.
I opened my eyes a hair and let them see gray, empty pupils. I stayed still. Movement would tell them I was willing. Survival is quieter than shouting.
"She must be from the border," someone decided. "A soldier's brat. Lucky we found her."
"Valentina will reward us," the maid said, smiling wide and cruel. "Or at least she won't spit on us."
They pushed my body toward the rot of Ghostwood, toward wolves and worse. Each step was a countdown. I counted poison pulses again
