The inmates screamed and hollered like caged animals, their cries echoing through the cold, damp corridors of the Dreadfort's seventh layer. A symphony of madness.
Amriel pressed herself against the wall of her cell, her heart thundering against her ribs as the sounds of combat intensified beyond her line of sight.
Steel clashed against steel—not the controlled, rhythmic clangs of training, but the desperate, chaotic strikes of men fighting for their lives. Guards shouted commands, their voices fracturing with panic. Then came a wet, gurgling sound—the unmistakable noise of a blade finding flesh—followed by a thud of a body crashing to the floor.
Instinctively, Amriel's fingers curled into the space where her bone blade should have been. Its absence hollowed her, the phantom weight a cruel reminder that she was utterly defenseless, stripped of everything but her tattered clothes and racing thoughts.
The screams of the other prisoners intensified, a cacophony of madness that made it impossible to discern what was happening in the corridor. Some howled like wolves, others laughed with the kind of hysteria that made Amriel's skin crawl. The Old One began chanting in a language she couldn't understand, his voice unnervingly steady amid the chaos.
Footsteps approached.
The screams intensified, mingling with the raucous laughter of the other prisoners. Amriel could see through the bars as a shadowy figure moved closer. Her pulse quickened, and cold sweat broke out along her spine. Twenty-seven days of imprisonment had weakened her body, but not her instinct for survival.
Panic surged through her chest, and she instinctively shrank back, her gaze darting around the cramped space, landing on her flea-infested blanket and the rusted metal bucket in the corner. Meager weapons, but they would have to do.
Hiding in the shadows of the corner beside the door, Amriel braced herself, knees bent slightly, weight balanced on the balls of her feet as her mother had taught her. Her breath quickened as she listened intently. The footsteps grew louder, heavy and deliberate. Then came the jingling of keys—metallic, ominous, a herald of either salvation or deeper damnation.
The lock on her door gave way with a heavy, ominous clunk, and the iron-barred door swung open. In stepped a hooded figure, face obscured by shadows. The blade at his side glimmered in the pale blue light, its edge slick with fresh blood.
Without hesitation, Amriel seized the moment. She threw the blanket over the hooded figure's head, momentarily disorienting them, and grabbed the metal bucket. With a swift, desperate motion, she brought it crashing down onto the stranger's head. The figure let out a surprised grunt, stumbling back as the blow connected with a hollow clang that reverberated off the stone walls.
She pressed the advantage, driving her knee up toward the figure's groin. The man twisted at the last second, her knee glancing off his hip instead. He staggered back, cursing.
"Seven hells!" the figure growled, voice deep and masculine.
Amriel didn't hesitate. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she darted past him into the corridor. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. The corridor stretched before her, lined with cells on either side, shrouded in shadows and uncertainty.
The screams and insane laughter of her fellow inmates crescendoed into a frenzy as she dashed past their cells. Some slammed themselves against their doors, skeletal arms reaching out to her through the iron bars, their fingers grasping at her as she passed. She refused to look at their faces, keeping her eyes fixed on the end of the hall where their stairs waited.
"Amriel, wait!" cried the voice behind her. "Please wait!"
Blood rushed so loudly inside her head she barely heard. Her bare feet slapped against cold stone as she raced toward the spiraling staircase at the corridor's end. Each impact sent shocks of pain through her weakened legs. The meager rations they'd provided—just enough to keep her alive for questioning—and minimal movement had taken a toll on her once-strong muscles.
Behind her, the hooded man's footsteps accelerated. He was gaining.
As she reached the stairwell, she was confronted by the sight of two guards sprawled on the stone. Their blood pooled beneath them, black in the dim light. Amriel swallowed her revulsion and leapt over them, taking the spiraling steps two at a time.
With each step, her legs trembled with weakness. Her breath came in sharp gasps, muscles screaming in protest as exhaustion threatened to drag her down. Still, she pushed herself harder, the fear of what lay behind her—and the desperate hope of what might lie ahead—driving her onward.
"Stop! Please!" the man called from below, his voice echoing up the stairwell.
Amriel ignored him, focusing instead on the burn in her lungs and the promise of escape. As she spiraled upward, she passed the sixth level, then the fifth, where the air grew marginally warmer. But her strength was waning fast. Black spots danced at the edges of her vision, and her legs felt like lead weights.
Just as she reached the fourth level landing, her father's ring—which had hung silently around her neck for twenty-seven days—suddenly grew warm against her skin. The heat of it startled her, causing her to stumble.
The man's footsteps echoed behind her, steady and determined.
"Stop running, damn it!" His voice bounced off the stone walls. "The upper levels are crawling with guards!"
A voice that was familiar. A voice that had played itself inside her mind over and over until it felt like someone she had known for a lifetime. Skidding to a stop over the stone, she froze for a heartbeat before she turned to see the hooded figure she had attacked recovering from her blow.
She whirled, summoning what little strength remained to wrench her arm away. As she did, the man pulled his hood back, revealing a face that sent a shock of recognition through her.
Strong jaw. Emerald eyes that shone with intensity even in the dim light. A thin scar running along his left cheekbone.
Thalon.
Memories crashed through her mind—not of the Dreadfort, but of a night over a month ago. A storm raging outside her cottage in the foothills. An injured man at her door, blood seeping from the wounds in his side. "Help me," he had gasped before collapsing on her threshold.
"You," she breathed, the word escaping her lips like a prayer and an accusation all at once.
The stranger offered a wry smile, "Yes. It's me," he replied softly.
"Twenty-seven days," She rasped through her ragged breaths, "Twenty-seven days…"
Her voice trailed off as a wave of anger surged within her, fierce and unrelenting, and with a cry of rage, Amriel lunged forward, fists clenched tightly, her body coiled with fury, desperate to confront him for the chaos he had unleashed in her life.
But as she propelled herself forward, her legs betrayed her. They buckled beneath her, and she collapsed, the unforgiving stone floor rushing up to meet her. In that fleeting moment, she heard her name called out just before everything faded to darkness.