The panic that had me ready to claw through stone with bare hands if it meant escape begins to bank, cooling into something harder, colder, more useful.
Anger.
The ice man put me here.
Locked me in stone and darkness and called it necessary.
He chained me with iron for touching his precious flame, for having the audacity to survive a car crash and seek help in the wrong place.
But I’m not dead yet.
And I refuse to break.
The defiance crystallizes into determination that settles in my chest like armor. They can lock me up, they can chain me, they can send monsters to feed on my fear in the darkness…
But they cannevermake me surrender.
I settle back against the wall, ignoring the cold seeping through the thin mattress and thinner jacket, and wait. Patient, defiant, exactly as stubborn as my mother always claimed I was being, except this time, that stubbornness might be the only thing keeping me sane.
Being here in this dim cell has my mind playing tricks on me.
I don’t know if I have been here for hours.
Or has it been days?
The only constant is the ringing in my ears and the coldness of this cell.
Then I hear footsteps again.
Lighter this time.
Quick.
Purposeful.
The viewing slot opens to reveal a woman’s face, sharp features framed by hair the color of flame with gold running through it like molten metal. Her eyes are amber, literallyglowing with inner fire, and when she speaks, her voice carries heat that has nothing to do with temperature.
“You’ve got fire in you,” she says, studying me with intensity that suggests she sees more than just flesh and fear. “Don’t let them snuff it out.” Before I can respond, before I can ask who she is or what she means, the slot snaps closed, and she’s gone, footsteps fading back up stairs I can’t reach.
It’s not kindness.
Just an observation from someone who recognizes something in me that I don’t fully understand yet.
But it’s enough.
Enough to remind me that I’m still here, fighting and refusing to break no matter what fresh horror comes through that door next.
The bulb flickers overhead, throwing shadows that dance like living things.
And in the darkness of my cell, deep in the mountain’s belly, I wait.
For what comes next.
For the witch they seem scared of.
For whatever fate has in store for a photographer who touched the wrong flame at the worst possible time.
But I wait on my own terms.
