“Stand back and stay put, for the love of the Radiant Lord!” thundered the voice of Sir Ulrech. “I do not care what you want. I am not opening the door. Take it to the inquisitor if you want to be let out. I—I cannot. I am … I cannot.”
She stepped back without a word and waited.
Night fell, and she knocked again. Maraz’Miri answered by slipping beneath the door a thin flask of gin. The agent didn’t speak to her, and more knocking prompted no more offering. So Semras waited.
Morning brought in another cell guard, and this time, the rattle of her fist against the wood brought her a polite request from Sin’Sagar to state her need. The witch didn’t dignify him with an answer and retreated until the next shift change.
“Semras?” Themas replied at her next knock. “Semras, you … Are you alright?”
He sounded anxious, but it could be a trap. She remained silent.
“Inquisitor Velten told us you had a disagreement with him … that you were locked in here until you calmed down. For your … for your own good, he said.”
What a risible excuse her captor had given to his subordinates—and yet they all believed it so easily. They’d believe anything he’d say, and nothing she would.
Slumping down by the door, Semras waited for the young knight to prove her right.
“… It’s not true, is it?” Themas whispered. His voice came from the door’s keyhole. Such a little thing of metal stood between her and freedom, and yet she couldn’t get past it.
“Semras,” he called again. “He locked you in there because he did something he does not want you to speak of, didn’t he?”
Her heart skipped a beat. Could she trust him, after all? Or was it a test of her loyalty to the monster? Themas sounded too close toknowingthe truth behind her captivity; it made her suspicious.
“Open the door,” she murmured in a coarse, strained voice.
“I …”
“Themas, open the door.”
A pause, and then, “I can’t.”
Semras closed her eyes. They felt too worn out, too tired and heavy and dry. Useless. He was useless.
“Give me time,” he said at last. “I cannot get you out right now, not without a plan. Let me … let me figure it out, and then—”
Approaching footsteps put a halt to his blatant lies.
Then,hisvoice rose in a threatening thunder. “Sir Themas, swap places with Maraz’Miri.”
“My lord, I—”
“Now,” the monster said. A storm was brewing in the rough, blank voice he spoke with—one she had nowhere to shelter herself from.
Panic rose in her throat. Semras fought it, lost, and retched next to the door. Her entire body shook—in fear, in distress, in pain. She tried to take back control of her breath between heaves, but only pathetic whimpers escaped her. She couldn’t breathe.
She couldn’t breathe, and she needed to breathe, and she couldn’t breathe and she needed—
Air forcefully filled her lungs, bringing clarity to her mind. Breath by breath, Semras regained her calm. Footsteps walked away from the door, and she concentrated on slowing down her heartbeat. It took her several minutes before she returned to herself.
The monster was long gone by then. Dread released its grip on her.
Under the door, a small hand wrapped in dark clothes slid a flask of alcohol, and Semras took it with trembling hands.
Over the next four days, she came to learn her guards would change over three different time periods: the morning, the afternoon, and the night. Those who kept her door were all part of her captor’s direct retinue. Meals came in twice a day, along with a cleaning maid who always stayed silent. Whenever the young woman stepped inside, Semras’ guard would force her to stand at the window to let her work. One time, Themas was the one who let the maid in, and he kept his gaze lowered to the floor for the entire time, his hands clenched into fists.
The coward.
Sometimes she ate. Most times, she couldn’t force anything down her throat.
