I can’t move.
I can’t fight.
I can’t scream.
I can only endure.
Endure.
Endure.
I writhe and push against my constraints.
Fighting
I need to fight.
I cannot give in.
And that’s when I feel it—the hand on my right ankle loosens. The man’s grip faltering.
This is my chance.
I have next to no leverage. Only a single leg while pinned prone on the floor.
But it’s a lifeline. It’s an opportunity. And if life on the streets of Virellin taught me anything, it’s this: opportunity is the difference between another dawn and the Final Gate.
I muster all the strength I have and drive my knee up as high as I can take it, thrusting it into the back of Vessira’s knee. Her leg folds underneath her, and she crumbles to the ground.
The branding iron comes loose in her grip, peeling off my skin and tumbling to the floor.
Relief floods my body.
“You fucking idiot!” Vessira admonishes the man at my ankles. “You had one fucking job!”
“Apologies, Commander,” the man bows in deference. “I— I lost my grip,” he stutters.
Vessira winds her arm back and slaps the man across the face with the back of her hand.
“Not fucking good enough, Correk! Drag the bitch back into her cell. You’re on extended duty!”
Vessira gestures to the other man—Lars, I think—to leave, and she follows him out, dangling the branding iron in her fist up the stairs, fury still lashing into the air like violent whips.
And for a moment—nothing.
The dungeon hums in the quiet. Only the smell of burnt flesh keeping me company.
And Correk.
He waits for the others to close the door. Patient.Waiting.
The bolt grinds, the lock clicks.
Then, footsteps. He moves.
Correk steps toward me, tentatively. Slowly.Intentionally.
He kneels beside me, stretching out his arm, and I pull away.
