Realism tempered her scheming with every clank of her bonds as the shackles at her wrists stung with every strain, flesh beneath long since abraded away to raw, painful pink. She needed no light to confirm that her ankles were in a similar state as her wrists, aching and stinging each time she tried to kick hard enough to break her manacle free from her leg, or the anchor of the restraint free from the ancient stone walls it was embedded in.