RAGNA POV...
As for us cursed children crammed inside that rattling, dust–choked carriage, anywhere I so much as shifted my foot or turned my head, I could feel eyes snapping toward me like iron drawn to a lodestone, as though I were some rare, exotic monstrosity hauled out of the abyss and paraded around for spectacle, something to be whispered about, stared at, measured, feared.
Normally—oh, normally—I would have relished it, basked in it, maybe even taught some loudmouthed brat a humiliating lesson just to remind them why my name carried weight. But this… this was one of those rare, suffocating moments where the attention felt less like admiration and more like scrutiny under a blade, and the atmosphere in that cramped carriage clung to my skin like damp cloth, awkward and heavy and strangely accusatory.
And truth be told, I wasn't faring any better on the inside.
