The stairs were too soft.

I know that sounds dumb since they were made of stone, something hard. But they were smooth in a way that made me walk slower. Like they were used to carrying people who mattered, people who were royals. Not girls with bruises under their sleeves and dried blood behind their ears.

I kept my eyes on the floor, one hand on the rail as I made my way down. My legs were still sore. My wrist still stung. I kept expecting to feel pain when I stepped down, but the ache was ...