Chapter 7 Lena
Lena
Cold woke me.
Not the sharp kind that shocks you awake—the heavy, bone-deep cold that sinks in before you even realize you’re conscious. It wrapped around my ribs, slid between my shoulders, and settled there like it planned to stay.
I forced my eyes open.
Stone ceiling. Rough-hewn. Moisture clinging to the rock like breath held too long. The air smelled of antiseptic and iron…and something older. Forgotten.
Mountains.
My first attempt to move failed. Pain flared white-hot along my ribs, down my left side, straight through my lungs. I bit back a sound, breath coming shallow.
Cracked. Not broken.
I tested carefully. Everything still answered. Slow—angry—but intact.
Good.
A blanket had been thrown over me. Thin. Oleanders of frost edged the metal bed beneath. My wrists were free, but not out of mercy. My ankle was shackled—to the wall this time. Heavy. Industrial.
They’d learned.
I swung my legs slowly, breath controlled, posture deliberate. There were no windows. Just a steel door, sealed tight, and a soft light recessed into the ceiling—steady, not flickering.
Medical facility. Repurposed.
I pressed two fingers to my wrist. Pulse sluggish but strong. Sedation wearing off.
The door opened without warning.
A woman entered.
Mid-forties. White coat. Dark hair pulled back too tight. Her hands were steady—the kind that belonged to someone used to pain.
“You’re awake sooner than expected,” she said clinically.
“Always been an overachiever,” I replied, voice rough but steady.
She didn’t smile.
“You fractured two of our guard’s orbital bones,” she said, consulting a chart. “And dislocated another’s knee.”
“Glad to be of service.”
She set the tablet aside and stepped closer. “You were given medication to prevent complications. You’ll receive more if necessary.”
“Necessary for who?”
That earned me a look. A flicker of something not quite indifference.
“For you,” she said. “You are not scheduled for termination.”
There it was again.
I leaned back slightly, letting exhaustion show—just a little. “That’s comforting.”
The woman adjusted the drip, eyes never leaving mine. “You’ve been retained because you remain… strategically relevant.”
“Ah,” I said. “So I’m not a prisoner.”
She paused. “You are an incentive.”
The word landed heavier than any blow ever had.
They weren’t watching me anymore.
They were guarding what they thought they could use.
The doctor finished and stepped back. “Rest. Your movements will be restricted until further notice.”
“What happens if I don’t cooperate?” I asked softly.
Her expression finally changed. “We make your survival… uncomfortable.”
The door shut.
Silence returned—thick, oppressive.
I lay back, staring at the stone ceiling, letting my breathing slow as the pain receded into something usable. Something that sharpened my senses instead of dulling them.
The Ascendancy had moved me deep.
They thought mountains were protection.
All they’d really done was limit their own exits.
I tightened my fingers into the blanket, feeling the strength still there beneath the bruises, beneath the cold.
They didn’t realize they hadn’t brought me here to disappear me.
They’d brought me here because they were afraid.
Afraid of a man named Ronan Pierce.
And if he was willing to tear through networks and nations to find me…
Then The Ascendancy had already lost.
I closed my eyes—not to sleep, but to listen.
Stone carried sound differently.
And somewhere deep in the mountain, something was moving.