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No. No. No no no no no no no. She's only barely recovered from last time they took her; she can't let them take her again.
If she draws her saber, she'll die. There's no doubt in her mind about that, outnumbered as she is and with her master right there. There's nothing she can do; he knows it, they know it, she knows it. They wouldn't do this any other way.
The flash of inspiration is more like a memory; the floating, disconnected kind that sometimes linger after... whatever it is that they do to her. It's never been quite like this before, but - she reaches into the Force, nudges it just so...
The burst of feedback - fear and rage and terror - overwhelms her; she reels, barely keeping her feet, distantly aware of the shouting, of her droid stepping forward to steady her. She ignores it as best she can, and continues nudging at the Force, carefully, carefully...
And then, suddenly, she's elsewhere.
He nods, slowly, like he's settling something.
"The supply situation," he says. "You mentioned it. How much did you understand last night?"
Something in his expression shifts slightly at the precise recall — another thing being filed.
"Tell her—" he stops, reconsiders the phrasing. "Ask her, when she wakes. Whether she's willing to look at the foraging grounds." He picks up his cup again. "She'll have food and shelter regardless. I'm not going to starve someone who fought her way through the marsh."
He pauses. "Anything else I should know before she's up and moving around my fort?"
He considers this with the expression of a man who has decided to simply accept unusual things today.
"There's a stream," he says. "East wall. Jens would know the state of it." A pause. "Metal wire we have. What else?"
He nods, and the slight movement of his hand is a dismissal — not unfriendly, just complete. He has things to think about.
He looks up from whatever he was already thinking about.
"The truth," he says, after a moment. "Abbreviated. She's from elsewhere, she has abilities, she's here to recover and will contribute while she does." A beat. "Don't tell them she can read minds."
The day passes. Brytha brings food at midday without being asked, sets it inside the door without looking at Deskyl, and leaves. Jens fixes something on the window shutter that may or may not have needed fixing. Merra's voice passes in the corridor twice.
Kolar drills the soldiers in the yard for most of the afternoon. She drills them harder than usual.
The yard goes quieter as she crosses it — not silent, but the quality of the noise changes. Kolar stops mid-correction and watches. Torand, to his credit, keeps his eyes forward for almost five full seconds before looking.
The soldier on watch in the tower is Merra, as it happens. She clocks them on the stairs and shifts to make room without being asked.
Deskyl nods an acknowledgement and turns her attention to the gravemarsh beyond the walls.
Merra glances at DZ, then back at the marsh, then at DZ again.
"She's looking for something specific?" she asks, quietly enough not to carry.
Merra accepts this with a small nod, the nod of someone who doesn't entirely understand but recognizes useful information when she hears it.
"It's quieter in the day," she offers, after a moment. "The dead. They move more at night." A pause. "We don't know why."
Merra watches the exchange with the careful stillness of someone who has decided that asking is probably fine.
"Is she alright?"
Merra looks out at the marsh for a moment.
"She fought through that—" a small gesture toward the marsh "—injured."
It's not quite a question.
"No," Merra agrees, with the tone of someone updating a prior assessment. She's quiet for a moment. "She should probably know — we get waves. Of them. The dead. Not every night, but sometimes thirty, forty at once. Piral can only do so much."