Another three days passed.
Serin no longer woke to panic. She still startled, still flinched at footsteps, still froze when someone moved too quickly, but she did not wake expecting chains.
She woke to warmth.
To blankets.
To food.
Food she had never seen before.
"Breakfast," Nurse Elara said, setting a tray gently on her lap. "You need calories. Eat slowly."
Serin blinked at the tray.
There was soup—thick, creamy, warm, smelling faintly of herbs and something savory she couldn't name.
There were flat round discs—golden-brown, soft, and slightly sweet-smelling. They called them pancakes, served with a drizzle of something called maple syrup that shined like liquid gold.
And beside them, small, crispy pieces of meat. Not roasted on a stick. Not salted and preserved. Hot, juicy, coated in something crunchy. Fried chicken, they called it.
She had never seen food like this.
