And in this darkness, I taste a seed of something. Not hope. Not yet. But possibility.
Because if they think I’m useful no longer — they’re wrong.
I remember Vokar’s voice: “Strength isn’t only bone, Freya. Strength is survival.”
I remember the cloak he gave me. The key-crystal. The feel of his arms around me like fortress walls.
I remember blood — but also the taste of life.
My throat bleeds when I swallow. Dry. Ragged. The cell smells of damp stone and stale air, but beneath — faint, stubborn — something like moss after rain. Earth that remembers survival even after ash.
I press my fingers to the slab beneath. Cold, unyielding. I imagine it’s the cliff wall, or the forest ground. I feel each grain, each scratch, each shard of roughness digging into skin.
I whisper — to the stone. To the darkness. To myself.
“I’m not weakness.”
My voice is low. Raw. Broken. But there.
The cell stays silent. Deaf. Indifferent.
But I am not silent.
I listen.
I hear distant footsteps — muffled, but alive. Not close. Maybe guards. Maybe nowhere near. But alive.
That means there’s still sound. Still breath.
I sit up — slowly. I test my limbs. Pain, sharp. But they respond.
My fingers brush the chain where it wraps around the slab. The metal is cold. Rough. I grit teeth. The wall scratches against my fingertips.
Maybe the lock is old. Maybe the chain can be snapped. Maybe a corner of the slab has a fracture just deep enough. Maybe the bolt has rust beneath the dust. Maybe this cell has been used too long, stripped of maintenance. Maybe vulnerabilities lurk behind compliance.
Maybe danger comes from broken bones. Maybe escape comes from one good break.
And maybe — maybe — the same hands that served mops, cleaned decks, wiped blood off metal, can learn to dig. To pry. To claw.
I push off the floor. Stand slowly. Head spins. Stars dance behind closed lids. But I stay upright.
I test my ankles. I move my hips. I flex my fingers. Pain sings, but not loud enough to drown everything else.
I edge toward the wall. My palms press against rough stone. The light flickers overhead. I lean shoulder weight. Bone-plates groan. The wall holds. But I feel movement in the seams. I feel dust shift.
I measur? the angle — small. Almost invisible.
I drop down, press fists against the slab beside the chain’s anchor. Rock chips under me. It rains dust. I hold breath.
Each push sends pain through ribs. Each shift slides me a fraction. The chain rattles. The lock turns in its socket, the tumblers shifting. Metal grinds, stones groan.
Outside — footsteps echo. Voices low, urgent.
I don’t know who. I don’t care.
I push again. Bone-plate joints popping. A scream maybe trapped behind my teeth. A wall crumbles. A fissure splits down the slab edge — width of a claw, length of a bone.
Tomorrow, someone might find the fracture, fill it. Weld it. Sweep the dust. They’ll never know it was more than wear.
