Aria stepped out of the dark punishment room, her legs unsteady and her arms aching from hours spent on the cold stone floor. The dim torchlight of the hallway did little to ease the tension that clung to her like a second skin.
She moved silently, careful to avoid the patrols, and headed toward the kitchen. The smell of cooked meat and fresh bread made her stomach tighten. Her hands, still trembling, carried a small wooden bowl as she ladled thick, savory stew into it, with a loaf of bread in her hand.
The kitchen staff watched quietly, some offering her sympathetic glances, though no one dared speak.
Sitting on a low bench near the far wall, she ate quickly, savoring every warm, simple bite. For a moment, the cold and fear from the punishment room faded, replaced by the small comfort of food and the knowledge that she was still alive.
