The Wound That Speaks

Vera woke to pain.

Not the sharp kind—the kind that screamed and demanded attention—but the slow, pulsing ache that settled into bone and refused to leave. It radiated from her shoulder, spread down her arm, and wrapped around her chest like a warning she could not ignore.

She opened her eyes.

White ceiling. Soft light. The faint scent of antiseptic and old stone.

The Bellanti estate infirmary.

Her breath hitched once, then steadied.

She was alive.

That ...