The sound of women’s cries slithers through the stone like wind through a graveyard. Guards bark orders, chains rattle, and somewhere in the dark, a whip cracks with a wet slap that makes my gut twist. I grip the torch tighter. I have to find Sirena before they break her.
The spiral staircase winds forever, slick under my boots. I pass one landing with a row of barred doors, another where something whispers my name.
I don’t stop.
I keep going until the air grows colder, thicker. The final step opens into a long, narrow corridor of stone and shadow. Cells line both sides—black mouths breathing rot. A single table with a lantern flickering weakly is at the far end, casting a trembling halo of light, while two torches near the stairs fight a losing battle against the dark.
I move slowly down the hall, glancing into each cell. Blank eyes stare back, faces stretched thin over bone. Some prisoners don’t move at all.
Then I hear it—chaos at the far end. A woman’s hysterical cackling, words broken and wild: “Get her! Yeah, fuck her!” The voice bounces off the walls like a curse. I glance over—Mad Maude. Has to be.
Opposite her, in the right-hand cell, a guard pins a woman to the filthy floor. She’s fighting, nails clawing, breath ragged—but he’s stronger, heavier, and she’s losing.
My blood flashes hot. Everything inside me turns razor-sharp.
I stride forward and throw the cell door open so hard it slams the wall. The sound snaps through the corridor like thunder. Theguard jumps up to a stand to try and get his baton—too slow. I’m already on him.
My boot drives into the back of his knee, folding him down. He cries out once before my hand is in his hair, yanking his head back. The torchlight catches his throat just as my knife kisses it.
I hold him there, the blade pressing close enough that he can feel his pulse stutter against it. I stare into his eyes, flat, empty things, and let him see it: the death waiting in mine. I wonder if he can see the red I feel burning through me, if he knows how easily I could open him like a piece of fruit.
He starts to shake, the smell of piss filling the cell as a puddle gathers between his boots, steaming in the cold air. I almost laugh, the sound rising like a tremor in my chest.
But I don’t speak. I can’t. They all think I have no tongue, so I let the silence do the talking.
I keep the blade at his throat and reach into my jacket, pulling out the crumpled release papers Bernie signed. I shove them in front of his face, shaking them until he looks. His eyes dart between the seal and me, desperate, wide.
He nods fast, and points to the woman on the floor. I press a little harder with the knife—just to make sure he remembers this moment—and then step back, the blade vanishing into my belt.
He stumbles up, still shaking, and scurries away, but I don’t watch him go, my attention is already on Sirena.
She’s huddled in the corner, knees drawn tight to her chest, arms wrapped around herself. Her lips move, whispering in that strange, lilting tongue I’ve heard before—something between prayer and madness. Tears streak the grime on her face, and her breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps.
I kneel in front of her, slow, careful, the torchlight throwing both our shadows against the wall—hers small and trembling, mine crouched and feral.
“Sirena?” I whisper, my voice low enough that even the stones might not hear. “You with me, lovely? Can you hear me?”
Her rocking slows, just a fraction, her eyes flicking up, wild and glassy. For a heartbeat, I think she doesn’t see me at all.
Then, faintly, like something rising from deep water, she whispers my name.
I nod fiercely and press a finger to my lips, a quiet, “Shhh,”slipping out. Her wide, terrified eyes lock on mine and she nods, trembling but silent. The sobs fade to small, broken breaths. She knows me enough to know she’s safe.
“I’m getting you out of here,” I whisper, keeping my voice as thin as the air between us. “But you have to stop muttering in your native tongue, you hear? That’s all the reason they need to hang you. You sound different to them, so they call you a witch. I know you’re not. But they don’t.”
Her chin quivers. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, voice raw and small. “I’m just so scared. It’s the language I think in… if you understand me?”
I nod, leaning closer.
A thin, shaky laugh escapes her, like a bird fluttering from a cage and I smile just enough to keep her steady. The dungeon hums around us—whips cracking, chains rattling, someone praying in a voice already half-dead.
When her trembling starts to slow, I help her stand but her legs barely hold, so I guide her down the long corridor. The torchlight flickers against the walls, and every face we pass—every empty cell, every whisper—feels like it’s watching us leave.
The climb up the spiral staircase is slow and suffocating, the dungeon fading behind us, replaced by the stone of the upper halls. I keep my head low and move fast, praying no one stumbles across us.
Outside, the cold air hits like a blade. Sirena gasps, lifting her face toward the moon. Her skin looks ghost-pale under the silver light. I help her onto Ada, steadying her until she’s seated.
“Go straight to De’s,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Don’t stop for anyone. You hear?”
