The small spoils room was quiet. Issa sat on the edge of her sleeping mat, her legs folded beneath her. Her hands moved automatically, sorting and binding up bunches of dried herbs — valerian, mugwort, chamomile. The air around her oozed with the smell of plants. The heavy collar at her neck felt heavier in the stillness of the night, like a cold, constant pressure around her throat.

Her mind went back to the gruesome execution she had witnessed earlier that day. She could still hear the ...