Author: Finya

The next morning, Caoimhe saw Odhran and me off. Before we stepped outside, she pulled me aside, her expression thoughtful. “You’ll be quite warm in yer wool dress, lass,” she said, glancing me over with a critical but kind eye. “I’ve an old linen dress that’s just gatherin’ dust. It might fit ya.”

She disappeared into a nearby room and returned with a brown linen dress. It was well-worn but well-made, the kind of garment that had clearly stood the test of time. When I tried it on, it hung a bit loosely on my frame, but Caoimhe just smiled. “You’ll ‘ave time to fill it in wit’ good food when ya get to where ya goin’, lass.”

Her humor softened the knot of nerves in my chest, and I couldn’t help but smile back, even as my heart ached at the thought of leaving.

Outside, she handed me my knapsack, the gesture practical but full of care. Then, before I could react, she wrapped me in her arms, holding me close as she kissed the top of my head. “You’ll always ‘ave a place here, lass,” she murmured, her voice thick with affection. “If ya change yer mind on the way, don’t hesitate to come back.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat as I pressed my face into her shoulder. My voice was a whisper, trembling with barely contained emotion. “Thank you,” I managed, the words feeling too small for all I wanted to express.

When she finally released me, she held me at arm’s length, her warm hands steady on my shoulders. “Promise to write us,” she said firmly, her gaze searching mine. “At least t’let us know you’ve made it to the city a’right.”

I nodded again, this time more firmly, and she smiled, satisfied.

Moments later, I found myself sitting in the back of the wagon, surrounded by supplies, waving at Caoimhe as we moved further and further away from Pellas. Her figure grew smaller in the distance, standing by the gate with her apron held in her hands, watching until we were out of sight.

Odhran, perched at the front of the wagon, guided the mule with practiced skill, his movements sure and steady. Beside him sat Branigan—the boy I’d seen at the well—chattering endlessly about nothing and everything all at once. His enthusiasm was infectious, and though I said nothing, I found myself listening to his stories, the sound of his voice a comforting rhythm against the steady clip-clop of the mule’s hooves.

The mule trotted tirelessly toward Minas Arnach, and as the wagon swayed gently beneath me, I stole a glance at the road ahead. The ache of leaving Pellas remained, but mingled with it was the faintest spark of anticipation. My journey was far from over, but for the first time in a long while, I felt the smallest flicker of hope.

Branigan was never without words or opinions, and he made sure I knew it. He regaled me with stories about the dog on his farm that had puppies, seamlessly transitioning into a tale about the flock of geese that once chased him up the lane between the farmhouses. Before I could respond, he was rolling up his trouser leg to proudly show me a scar on his knee. “Got this from climbin’ too high in the big oak behind Ma’s garden. Fell right out! But don’t worry—I climbed it again the next day.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, nodding along and giving him the rapt attention he clearly craved. I needn’t reply. His energy was infectious, his words tumbling over each other in a chaotic yet endearing way. Occasionally, though, Branigan would run out of things to say, leaving all three of us to the quiet sway of the wagon and our own thoughts.

It wasn’t until the late afternoon that we turned into the main square of Minas Arnach. Calling it a square felt generous; it was little more than a scattering of buildings—a house, an alehouse, and a well surrounded by wagons and bustling villagers. Several other wagons were already hitched at a post, their owners trading goods and exchanging coins.

Odhran guided our wagon to an open spot and reined in the mule. Branigan leapt down immediately, grabbing the mule’s halter and hitching it to the post with the enthusiasm of someone eager to move on to his next adventure. No sooner was the mule secured than Branigan darted off, disappearing into the crowd without a backward glance.

I climbed down from the wagon far more slowly, clutching my knapsack tightly to my chest. The sight of so many people—talking, trading, moving with purpose—made my heart race. The noise, the motion, the sheer liveliness of the square was overwhelming.

Odhran stepped around the wagon and fixed me with his steady gaze. “Well, lass, here ya be. Will you make it on a’right from here?” His tone was low, his expression unreadable.

I nodded, though my grip on my knapsack tightened. “I will,” I said, though my voice wavered slightly.

He gave a low hrmph, his brow furrowing. “Hand me your bag now,” he said, holding out his hand.

Panic flared in my chest, quick and sharp. My mind raced through every worst-case scenario, but Odhran’s expression didn’t waver, and his outstretched hand remained steady. His patience outdid my reluctance. I handed him my knapsack, my fingers trembling slightly.

He rummaged through the bag with a practiced efficiency, frowning deeply when he looked back up at me. “Lass,” he said, his tone heavy with disapproval, “ya only have a few dried things to eat—and no flint. Do ya not have even a small knife?”

I shook my head, shame rising in me like a tide. My face reddening. His frown deepened as he handed the knapsack back to me.

“Don’t go wanderin’ off, lass,” he said firmly. “Stick wit’ the wagon, and I’ll be back.”

Before I could respond, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through the throng of villagers with ease. I stood there clutching my knapsack, feeling small and vulnerable in the face of so much movement and noise.

Feeling uncomfortable with being left alone, I shouldered my bag and moved closer to the mule. He gave a soft nicker, his ears twitching as I approached. When he reached out with his nose, I hesitated before timidly brushing my hand against his warm, velvety muzzle. He leaned into the touch, his quiet presence grounding me in the midst of the bustling square.

We stayed like that, the mule and I, sharing a moment of stillness as the activity of the square swirled around us. The gentle rhythm of his breathing calmed the rising nerves in my chest, and I focused on the simple motion of stroking his nose.

It wasn’t long before Odhran reappeared, weaving his way through the crowd with his usual steady determination. He carried a bag in his hand and a larger roll in the other hand, and as he reached me, he gave a grunt, his expression unreadable.

“This’ll keep ya for now, lass,” he said, thrusting the bag toward me. “It’s a kit for ya. Some flint, a knife…” He hesitated, glancing at the mule before continuing, his tone almost gruff. “You ain’t even got a bedroll. That’s what this thing is ‘ere. And there’s a pan in there some place, if ya happen to catch somethin’.” He gave a small shrug, as if to dismiss the thoughtfulness of his gesture.

I took the bag hesitantly, my fingers brushing the rough fabric. His words, practical and direct, carried a weight that made my throat tighten. He didn’t have to do this—he didn’t have to care—but he did.

Before I could overthink it, I reached out and took his hand, giving it a quick squeeze before releasing it just as fast. My gaze dropped to the ground, my cheeks warm with emotion I couldn’t put into words.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but full of sincerity. I tried to pour as much emotion as I could into the simple words, hoping he could understand how deeply I appreciated what he had done for me.

Odhran gave a small nod, his expression unreadable but his gaze steady. Before either of us could say more, Branigan came bounding back, his energy spilling over as he approached, followed by a gaggle of other young boys. Their chatter and laughter filled the air, a stark contrast to the quieter exchange I’d just had with Odhran.

“Odhran! We’ve come to help unload!” Branigan declared proudly, puffing out his chest as though leading a troop into battle.

“You’re the last to arrive!” another boy teased, smirking as he gave Branigan a playful shove.

Odhran raised his hands in a placating gesture, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “A’right, a’right, you ruffians. Let’s get unloaded.” His voice carried the familiar mix of authority and humor that seemed to keep the boys in line.

Then he turned back to me, his expression softening. “Will you be on yer way then?” he asked, his tone quieter now, meant just for me.

I nodded, clutching the straps of my knapsack. “Yes,” I replied softly, “there’s s-still light enough for m-me to walk s-some.”

He placed a gentle hand on my shoulder, the unexpected warmth of the gesture settling something in my chest. “Well, be off wit’ ya then,” he said, giving my shoulder a small pat. “Safe travels, lass.”

I nodded again, swallowing the lump rising in my throat as he turned back to the boys, his focus now on dividing the boxes and bags among them. Their laughter and chatter faded behind me as I turned toward the road.

The finality of the farewell weighed on me as I stepped away from the square. I will write them often, I decided, clutching that thought like a promise. The image of Caoimhe’s kind smile and Odhran’s steady hand stayed with me, their memory a quiet reassurance as I took my first steps forward into the unknown.

The crunch of gravel under my boots was strangely comforting, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of my heart. Each step took me closer to my goal, to the life I was determined to build.

The further I walked, the lighter I felt, the nervous knot in my stomach slowly unraveling and making room for something new—excitement.

I let my thoughts drift ahead, imagining the city waiting for me. Minas Tirith. The name itself felt grand and full of promise, a place where I could leave behind everything that had weighed me down.

I pictured myself there, standing in a bustling workshop, surrounded by bolts of fine fabrics in every color imaginable. My hands would move deftly, stitching beauty into every seam, my creations sought after by nobles and merchants alike. I imagined that I would become the most famous seamstress in the city, my name whispered in admiration by those who wore my designs.

The thought made me smile, my pace quickening as though the vision might somehow pull me forward faster. For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to hope—not just for survival, but for a future that was mine to shape.

My mind wandered as I walked, the rhythm of my steps lulling me into a quiet daydream. Thoughts of the city and the future filled the hours until the sun hung low in the sky, its golden light fading into soft shades of amber and lavender.

When the shadows grew long and the air turned cooler, I stepped off the road, moving carefully through the brush until I felt I was far enough away to be unnoticed. I set my knapsack down and paused, listening for any sounds beyond the faint rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds settling in for the night.

When the shadows grew long and the air turned cooler, I stepped off the road, moving carefully through the brush until I felt I was far enough away to be unnoticed. I set my knapsack down and paused, listening for any sounds beyond the faint rustling of leaves and the distant call of birds settling in for the night.

Unrolling the bedroll Odhran had given me, I laid it out on the soft ground and sat down, my hands resting lightly in my lap. For a moment, I just sat there, breathing in the crisp air and letting the quiet of the evening surround me. The world felt vast, stretching endlessly in every direction, and for the first time in days, I allowed myself to feel a small, tentative sense of peace.

As the last light of the sun slipped below the horizon, the chill of the night began to creep in. I huddled closer to the small pile of sticks and kindling I had gathered, my fingers trembling as I tried to strike the flint against the steel. Sparks flew, faint and fleeting, but the kindling remained stubbornly dark.

My heart sank. I tried again, gritting my teeth, willing the fire to catch. The sparks danced and fizzled, mocking me. The cold was biting through my wool dress, sinking into my skin as frustration and fear twisted in my chest.

My breathing grew uneven, and I couldn’t stop the panic creeping in around the edges. The night was closing in, the darkness pressing against me. I’d heard the stories—wild animals, bandits, the terrible things that thrived out here when the sun was gone. Without a fire, I felt vulnerable, exposed.

You’re not strong enough for this, my treacherous mind whispered, cruel and insistent. I shook my head, trying to push the thought away, and struck the flint harder this time. The steel slipped, scraping against my knuckles. I hissed in pain, pulling my hand back and cradling it to my chest.

The sting was sharp but faded quickly, replaced by the heavy ache of exhaustion. My throat tightened, tears threatening to spill, but I blinked them back. I stared at the pile of wood and kindling, as if sheer willpower alone could make it ignite.

I don’t know how long I sat there, trying, hoping. But eventually, I had to admit defeat. My hands fell to my sides, limp and useless, and the flint and steel tumbled to the ground.

Pulling my bedroll around me, I curled up with my knees to my chest. The wool dress I’d layered on helped stave off some of the cold, but it wasn’t enough. I shivered, my breath fogging in the air as I scanned the shadows around me. The faint moonlight made everything look eerie, stretched and unfamiliar. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a branch made my heart pound.

My mind wouldn’t stop racing. Every sound became a threat, every movement a danger I couldn’t see. I thought of Odhran’s gruff goodbye, of Caoimhe’s warm embrace and the safety of her home. They felt so far away now, like a dream I’d already forgotten.

The wave of homesickness hit me hard, mixing with self-doubt and fear until I felt hollow and small. I tried to close my eyes, to force sleep to come, but every time I did, the darkness seemed deeper, the noises louder.

The night stretched on, the darkness pressing in heavier with each passing hour. I pulled the bedroll tighter around me, my fingers numb from the cold. My head drooped forward, and for a moment, exhaustion overtook fear. My eyes fluttered shut, and I felt myself slipping into a fragile, restless doze.

Then a rustling sound jolted me awake. My head snapped up, heart pounding as I scanned the shadows. It was nothing—just the wind through the trees, I told myself, though the knot in my chest refused to loosen.

I adjusted the bedroll and sat up straighter, determined to stay alert. But the cold seeped into my bones, and my body betrayed me. My eyes grew heavy again, and despite my best efforts, I nodded off once more.

This time, I dreamed—or maybe I didn’t. I thought I heard footsteps crunching on gravel, faint and deliberate. My heart raced, dragging me back to wakefulness, but when I opened my eyes, the world was still. Just shadows and the faint glow of moonlight.

My breaths came quick and shallow as I rubbed my arms, trying to warm myself. The hours dragged on, blurring into a haze of half-sleep and startled wakefulness. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt on the edge of sinking into deeper rest, but something—a noise, a movement, or just my own mind—kept pulling me back.

By the time the first faint light of dawn began to break through the trees, I was utterly exhausted. My body ached from sitting curled up all night, and my mind felt as frayed as the hem of my dress. But the sight of the soft, gray morning light was enough to ease the tightness in my chest. The night was over.

The next two days blurred into a repetitive rhythm of walking and making camp, each moment both exhausting and strangely meditative.

During the day, the crunch of gravel under my boots and the occasional breeze were my only companions. The road stretched ahead of me, endless and unchanging, with no other travelers in sight. I kept my eyes on the horizon, focusing on each step forward. I knew it wasn’t much, but every mile brought me closer to Minas Tirith—and closer to the life I wanted to build.

When the sun dipped low in the sky, I’d find a place to make camp, usually off the road and sheltered by trees. I would lay out my bedroll and unpack my supplies, organizing everything with care. Then, determined to improve, I would set to work building a fire.

The first evening, it still didn’t come easily. I struck the flint and steel again and again, each failed attempt scraping away at my patience. The kindling refused to catch, mocking my efforts with its stubborn stillness.

My frustration bubbled over, boiling into anger that I couldn’t contain. With a growl of rage, I shot to my feet and hurled the flint as far as I could into the brush. “Stupid thing!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the quiet of the woods. I stomped the ground like a child, cursing the flint, the kindling, and everything else that refused to go my way. My chest heaved, my breath coming fast and hot, as I fought against the helplessness that had been building all day.

When the storm of my anger finally began to ebb, guilt crept in to take its place. I stood there, frozen for a moment, before the realization hit me like a cold slap. What if I lost it?

My stomach sank. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered under my breath, the words aimed squarely at myself now. Without the flint, there would be no fire—not tonight, maybe not ever again. The weight of my mistake settled heavily on me, and I turned toward the darkening trees where the flint had disappeared.

Cursing my own foolishness, I stalked into the brush, my eyes scanning the ground frantically. The light was fading fast, making every shadow stretch and shift, but I searched anyway, my fingers trembling as I sifted through leaves and twigs.

Finally, my hand brushed against the cool, sharp edge of the flint. Relief flooded through me, and I gripped it tightly, holding it as if it might vanish again if I let go. I walked back to my unlit kindling, cradling the flint in my palm like a precious jewel.

Sitting back down, I took a deep, shaky breath, forcing myself to calm. My hands still trembled as I struck the flint against the steel again, but this time I was more careful, more deliberate. When a small spark finally landed and caught, I leaned in close, gently blowing until a tiny flame began to grow.

The fire was pitiful at first, barely more than a flicker, but it was mine. The warmth of it touched my face, easing the cold that had settled in my chest. I stared into the flames, exhausted but determined, promising myself I wouldn’t let my anger get the better of me again.

I slept much better, with the comfort of my little fire, that I woke occasionally to feed with the little file of wood that I had next to me. 

When the sun finally rose, I felt rested and refreshed. It took me very little time to gather all my supplies, make sure my little fire was out, and step back onto the well-worn road. 

The days blurred together, marked only by the slow arc of the sun across the sky. I trudged onward, stopping only to refill my water skin at the occasional creek, but I never lingered. No matter how much my legs ached or how heavy my knapsack felt, I forced myself to keep moving.

When the sun began its descent toward the horizon, I finally stopped to make camp. This evening, the fire came easier, its warmth crackling to life without the frustration of the night before. Wrapped snugly in my bedroll, I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, my body too exhausted to let my mind wander.

And so the days carried on, a steady rhythm of walking, resting, and rising again with the sun. But on the fourth morning, as I stepped back onto the road, something changed.

The sound of distant voices made me freeze. I strained to listen, my pulse quickening. Laughter–rough and coarse–echoed from somewhere ahead, followed by the crunch of gravel under heavy boots. I edged closer to the side of the road, my heart pounding as I debated whether to stay on the path or slip into the trees. 

Two men came into view around the bend, coming from the north. Their clothes were travel-worn, their boots caked in mud. One carried a long staff slung casually over his shoulder, while the other toyed with a small dagger, flipping it between his fingers as though it was an extension of his hand.

I ducked my head, pulling my cloak tighter around me in an attempt to seem invisible despite being the only other human on this empty road. Just walk past them. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t stop.

As I approached, their laughter ceased. The man with the dagger noticed me first, I could feel his dark eyes narrow and focus on me. “Well, what do we have here?” His voice was oily and sharp. 

I kept my gaze fixed on the ground just ahead of me, my steps quickening. “J-just p-passing through…” I mumbled, hoping that they would lose interest. 

The man with the staff stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Hold on now, no need to be r-r-rude,” he said, his tone mocking my stutter. “We’re just trying to be neighborly, miss.” 

My throat immediately felt dry. My mind raced for a way to get away, but the weight of my knapsack on my back made me feel slow, tethered. My aching feet making running feel impossible. “I d-don’t want t-trouble.” My voice still trembled despite my effort to sound firm. 

“There isn’t any trouble at all,” the dagger-wielding man said with a grin, taking a step closer. “Just curious why a little lady like you is doin’ out here on your own. Dangerous place for someone like you.” 

I clutched the straps of my knapsack tightly, forcing myself to stand a little straighter, “I’m t-traveling to the city. My–s-someone is w-waiting for me t-there.” 

“The city?” the man with the staff said, raising an eyebrow. “I hope you got coin for a big city like Minas Tirith?” His grin widened, showing yellow and uneven teeth. 

“I h-have n-nothing of value.” I blurted, stepping back instinctively. 

The dagger flipped in the air again, catching the morning light as the second man tilted his head. “Ya don’t sound so sure of that, miss. Everyone’s got somethin’ worth takin’.” 

Panic bubbled up in my chest, but before either of them could close the distance, the rumble of wagon wheels broke the tension. The men paused, their heads snapping towards the sound. 

The wagon came into view around the bend, this time from the south, where I had come from the day before, pulled by two sturdy mules. The driver, an older man wearing a wide-brimmed hat, slowed the wagon as he spotted us. His sharp eyes scanned the scene, and then narrowed them as he looked at the two men. 

“Everything a’right here?” the driver called, his voice firm but calm. 

The man with the staff stepped back with a feigned smile. “Oh, just a friendly chat, ya know how it is,” he said, his tone dripping with insincerity.

The driver didn’t look convinced. “You’d best move along,” he stated pointedly, his gaze unwavering. 

The men exchanged a glance before the one with the dagger shrugged and flipped the blade one last time, then tucking it into his belt. “‘Nother time, m-m-maybe,” he said, his voice low and mocking, before turning to follow his companion back down the southern route, not without throwing a lingering glance over their shoulders. 

The wagon driver watched them closer until they had moved a fair distance away, then he turned his eyes towards me, “You a’right, miss?” He had flicked the reins, and the mules moved his wagon closer to me. 

I could feel my whole body shaking, and yet my body was so riddled with tension that I could barely get my head to give a jerky nod, “y-yes, t-thank you.”

He eyed me, giving me a glance down at my dirty boots, and then back up at my clenched hands, still gripping the straps of my knapsack, and then back to my face. “Yer alone out here?” 

I felt shame flood my face with warmth, and I admitted quietly, “y-yes.” 

The driver frowned. “That won’t do. It’s not safe on the road by yerself. Come on, climb up. I’m headin’ towards Minas Tirith anyway.”

I hesitated, glancing toward the trees where the men had disappeared, before nodding. “Thank you,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.

The driver helped me onto the wagon, the rough wood of the seat cold beneath me. As the wagon jolted forward, I kept my head down, still shaken from the encounter. The driver didn’t press me for conversation, and I was grateful for his silence.

For the first time in hours, I felt a measure of safety, though the fear lingered in my chest like a shadow.

I didn’t realize how close I was, how far I made it for the road crested a hill, and there it was—the White City, Minas Tirith, rising from the landscape like a beacon. The towering walls gleamed faintly in the late afternoon sun, their brilliance softened by a hazy mist that clung to the city’s lower tiers. My breath caught, a mix of awe and nerves settling in my chest as I took in the sight.

We were still some ways away, I was given plenty of time to examine it. The city was larger than I had imagined, its sheer size making me feel small and insignificant. I had thought Pelargir large, with its large river running through. But Minas Tirith made Pelargir seem like a small dock town. Tier upon tier rose toward the citadel, where a single white tower pierced the sky, its flag snapping crisply in the breeze.

As the wagon drew closer, the hum of life reached me—voices calling out, the clatter of hooves on stone, the din of a city that never truly stopped moving. The wagon jostled beneath me as it rolled toward the gates, and I tightened my grip on the rough wooden seat. The driver had been kind to allow me to ride with him for the final stretch of my journey, his steady presence a quiet reassurance.

“You’ve been quiet the whole way,” he said, his voice finally breaking the silence since I joined him. He glanced at me from beneath the brim of his hat, his expression unreadable. “Nervous?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady.

“Don’t worry, lass. City’s big, but you’ll find your way.” He gave me a small, encouraging smile before flicking the reins.

As we approached the gates, the scale of the city hit me fully. The massive stone archway loomed overhead, and guards in gleaming armor stood at attention, their sharp eyes scanning the travelers coming and going. The line of carts and wagons moved slowly, each one stopping briefly as the guards checked the contents and asked a few curt questions.

When it was our turn, the driver tipped his hat and answered the guards’ inquiries with practiced ease. They barely spared me a glance, waving us through without much fanfare.

Inside, the city enveloped me immediately. The streets were narrow and bustling, lined with vendors shouting their wares and children darting between wagons. The air smelled of fresh bread, leather, and the faint tang of smoke. It was chaotic, vibrant, and overwhelming all at once.

The wagon trundled to a stop near an open square, and the driver turned to me. “This is as far as I go, lass. Best find yourself an inn for the night before it gets dark.”

I climbed down slowly, my legs stiff from the journey, and slung my knapsack over my shoulder. “T-thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but heartfelt.

He gave me a nod, his weathered face softening with a small smile. “Take care of yourself, now.” With a flick of the reins, him and his wagon moved out of the way of the busy market. 

The streets twisted and turned as I made my way through the first tier of the city, the crowd thick and the noise relentless. Every step felt like a struggle, dodging bustling bodies and uneven cobblestones that threatened to trip me. The towering walls and narrow alleys loomed overhead, closing in on me with every turn, the weight of the city pressing down like an unrelenting force. In an instant, I was swallowed by the crowd, just another face in the throng—insignificant, invisible, swept along in the tide of movement.

The noise was too much—voices calling out, wagon wheels clattering on stone, the sharp bark of a dog somewhere nearby. My breath came faster, shallower, as if the weight of the entire city was pressing against my chest. I could feel the fractures in my mind, the fragile edges starting to fray, and with each passing moment, the pressure only built,  threatening to spill over.

I stumbled to the side of the road, bracing myself against a rough stone wall as my legs threatened to give out. My hands flew to my head, fingers pressing hard against my temples, nails biting into my skin as if I could physically hold myself together. “Not here. Not here,” I whispered, the words trembling out of me like a mantra. My vision blurred, the bustling street around me twisting and warping into a dizzying swirl of sound and movement, suffocating and inescapable.

My knapsack slipped from my shoulder, landing on the ground with a dull thud that barely registered through the chaos in my mind. I grasped for something—anything—to anchor myself, but the thoughts came faster, spinning out of control. The crowd. The noise. The walls. What if I can’t find a way out? What if I can’t breathe? The pressure in my chest grew unbearable, and a single thought cut through everything like a knife: I’m drowning. 

I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers clutching the rough fabric of my cloak as though it could tether me to reality. Dark, cold waters surged through my mind, pulling me under in relentless waves of panic. My chest tightened, the sensation clawing at me, threatening to drown me completely. But through the chaos, a single thought pierced the storm: Calm down. You’ve made it this far. Don’t let it win now.

I forced a shaky breath in through my nose, holding it for a heartbeat before exhaling slowly through my mouth. Again. My chest hitched, the air catching in my throat, but I tried once more, willing my breathing to steady. I latched onto the smallest details—the cool air brushing against my cheeks, the rough texture of the wall beneath my hand—forcing myself to anchor in the present. I repeated this rhythm, this dance with myself until I could feel my control returning, pulling me further away from the panic. 

Inhale.

Hold.

Exhale.

Slowly, the blur around me began to clear, the chaos retreating to the edges of my awareness. The noise of the street was still there, but it felt muffled now, distant and less overwhelming. I opened my eyes and fixed them on the stones in the wall before me—their uneven texture, the delicate cracks tracing through them, the faint green moss clinging stubbornly to the edges. I clung to those small details, grounding myself one breath at a time.

When my breathing finally steadied, I wiped my damp palms against my dress, the fabric cool against my skin. Bending down, I retrieved my knapsack, my fingers trembling slightly as I gripped the straps. My legs wobbled as I pushed myself back upright, but I forced them to hold. Not here, I told myself, squaring my shoulders. I can’t break here. Not in the middle of the street.

“Are you all right, love?”

The voice jolted me, sharp and unexpected, and my head snapped up. An older woman with a weathered face stood a few steps away, her expression etched with concern. Her sharp gaze softened as she took a cautious step closer, her hands slightly raised as if to reassure me. “Looking for something?” she asked gently, her tone low but probing.

My breathing hitched again, and I tore my gaze away, trying to block out her presence. Breathe. The rhythm was all I could focus on now—Inhale. Hold. Exhale. I repeated it silently, clinging to the unsteady control I was regaining.

I heard her voice again, softer this time as she repeated her question, but I couldn’t look at her just yet. My chest still felt tight, but I forced the words out. “A-an inn?” My voice wavered, but it was enough.

I glanced up hesitantly, expecting judgment or impatience in her expression, but there was none. Her face showed only curiosity.

She nodded, gesturing up towards the gate to the second level. “The Silver Blade’s not far. Just ahead, go through the gate, and to the left, you can’t miss it. Decent place for a night or two.”

I murmured a thank-you and forced myself to move, each step pulling me further from the chaos of the first level. 

As I approached the gate to the second tier, I hesitated. The guards stationed there weren’t stopping everyone, but their sharp gazes swept the crowd, their scrutiny deliberate and unnerving. I adjusted my knapsack, straightened my cloak, and slipped into the edge of the flow of people moving upward. The tenuous control I had pieced together earlier wavered under the weight of their watchful eyes. But, once again, I passed unnoticed, just another face in the bustling throng.

The second tier felt different—quieter, more orderly. The streets still bustled with activity, but the chaos of the lower level was replaced by a sense of purpose. Merchants guided their carts toward tidy market stalls, their movements efficient and deliberate. The houses lining the roads stood taller here, their stone façades adorned with neat window boxes overflowing with vibrant flowers, adding a touch of life to the gray stone.

When the inn came into view, its painted sign swaying gently in the breeze, I nearly collapsed with relief.

Inside, the warmth of the common room wrapped around me like a comforting embrace. The innkeeper’s cheerful greeting felt like a haven, and after paying for a room, I climbed the narrow stairs to the safety of my quarters.

In the quiet of the small room, I sat on the edge of the bed, letting the last of the tension drain from my body. My breath was steady now, my mind quiet again. The panic had been overwhelming, but I had survived it. I didn’t drown in it. I had made it here, to Minas Tirith.

For tonight, that was enough. 

As the edges of the dream began to fade and my awareness returned, the feelings lingered, soft and bittersweet. The garden’s warmth clung to me like a memory I didn’t want to let go of. Yet the earthy scent of the fresh hay mattress began to pull at my consciousness, grounding me. The quilt pressed gently against my skin, its weight a quiet comfort.

I snuggled deeper into its warmth, reluctant to let go of the safety the dream had given me. My body relaxed, and just as I thought I might fully awaken, I slipped back into a haze of dreams—fragmented and tilting between the remnants of that golden garden and the familiar sensations of reality. The two blurred together, comforting in their dissonance, until I drifted further, lost in the ebb and flow of slumber.

When finally, no more dreams came, I awoke. It felt as sudden as lighting a match. My mind was made aware of all the noises around me. The shuffling of feet in the next room over, a bench pushed back causing a scraping noise along the floor. Voices spoke low, too low for me to tell exactly what was being said, but I could tell there was more than one.  

I cracked open one of my eyes and found that the room was still dark. Folding the blanket back, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet encountered the bare floor and I gasped from the cold. I stared at them; I couldn’t recall taking off my boots. More noise from beyond the door caught my attention now.  

A light appeared, the glow of a candle, and a gentle voice said, “Aw, sweet’eart, you’ve woke up now.” Caoimhe filled the doorway and the warmth of the candlelight showed her gentle smile. I surprised myself by smiling in response to hers as she moved slowly towards me with her hand held out. “Come now, you’ve slept a’day an’ a’night. The sun’s risin’ soon. There’s work to be done and stories t’tell.” 

Her hand was warm and steady as she helped me to my unsteady feet. With a gentle smile, she gestured to the boots resting at the foot of the bed. “Go ahead and pull yer boots on. We’ll eat somethin’, then fetch some water and tell the others a g’morning.”

I nodded silently and did as I was told, slipping my boots on and lacing them tightly. When I stepped out of the room, adjusting my cloak and straightening the folds of my dress, I glanced up—and instantly froze, my muscles tensing with unease.

An older man sat at the far end of the table, hunched over a bowl. He shoveled food into his mouth with a mechanical efficiency that made him seem more a part of the room than a person in it. His presence was sharp and unfamiliar, unsettling in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

I lingered near the doorway, instinctively shrinking back into its shadow. My mind raced, calculating whether I could retreat unnoticed before he realized I was there.

Caoimhe turned and caught my hesitation, her face softening as she smiled. “Come now, dear, ‘ave a seat,” she said gently, placing a bowl at the table. It was filled to the brim with what looked like a thick, white soup, a spoon standing upright in the center.

I moved cautiously, each step deliberate as I approached the table. My gaze flicked to the man, watching him warily. He didn’t acknowledge me, his focus entirely on the food before him.

I slid into the chair nearest the bowl, the wood creaking slightly beneath me. As I picked up the spoon, I glanced again at the man, but his indifference remained. Only then did I allow myself a slow breath, though my guard stayed firmly in place.

In the flickering light of the hearth and the soft glow of candles scattered across the table, I could make out the details of the man more clearly. His skin was darkened and weathered, etched with deep lines that told of years spent under the sun. A thick, dark beard obscured the lower half of his face, while his equally dark hair was tied neatly at the nape of his neck, strands of silver catching the firelight.

He ate with single-minded focus, spooning the contents of his bowl with a determination that suggested he would finish within a few more bites. His rough linen clothes, in natural, muted tones, matched the practical simplicity of the dress Caoimhe wore—and had worn yesterday.

As I slid into my seat, I noticed his hands: large and work-worn, the skin calloused and cracked, marked by labor that had undoubtedly shaped his life. His presence, though silent, felt heavy, a quiet strength emanating from the way he carried himself.

I lowered my gaze to the bowl in front of me, feeling the weight of observation shift inward as I tried to make myself as small and unnoticeable as possible.

The spoon still stood straight up in the thick, white goop, unwavering as if it had been planted there. Tentatively, I reached out and gave it a tug. It came free easily, the substance clinging briefly before sliding back into the bowl. I hesitated, lifting the spoon to my nose and sniffing cautiously.

The smell was unfamiliar, faint and earthy but not unpleasant. If this had been served to me at the inn, I would have refused it outright, certain it was something forgotten too long or scraped together from leftovers. But the warmth rising from the bowl coaxed me, a small comfort in its own way, and I took a cautious bite.

The taste was nothing like I expected. Creamy and rich, with a hint of herbs that lingered on my tongue—it filled my mouth with warmth and chased the lingering chill from my body. A moan escaped me before I could stop it, unbidden and embarrassingly loud in the quiet room.

The older man at the head of the table paused mid-spoonful, glancing up with raised brows. A low laugh rumbled from him, rough and unrestrained, breaking the silence like a hammer on glass.

Embarrassed and startled by the sudden noise from him, I dropped the spoon with a clatter into the bowl, heat rushing to my cheeks.

Caoimhe whipped around, her voice sharp but not unkind. “Odhran!” The suddenness of it startled me, and I jumped in my seat.

Odhran grinned, the white of his teeth a striking contrast against the dark beard and weathered lines of his face. “The girl acts like she ain’t had porridge before!” he said with a chuckle, his deep voice carrying easily across the room.

Heat rushed to my cheeks again, and I ducked my head, staring down into the bowl. I hadn’t. Or at least, I didn’t think I had. Maybe once—back in the life before—but that memory, like so many others, was hazy and unreachable.

Caoimhe crossed the room, her steps quick and purposeful. Her warm hand settled gently on my hair, grounding me in the moment. “She might not ‘ave, Odhran,” she said, her tone softening. “Leave the poor thing be.”

The gentle motion of her fingers brushing through my hair calmed the knot in my chest, pulling me away from my embarrassment. Her touch was brief but comforting, and when she stepped away, I felt myself relax, the tension in my shoulders easing.

I reached for the spoon again, encouraged by the small kindness. My stomach growled, a low rumble of impatience, as I scooped up another bite of the thick, white porridge. It was warm and hearty, sliding down my throat with a soothing weight. I could feel the heat spread through my body, reaching down to my toes and settling in my chest like a steady flame. I could feel their eyes on me, but my hunger won out in the end and I let myself savor it—the taste, the warmth, the simple act of eating something that made me feel whole. It was such a small thing, yet it felt monumental, as if that bowl of porridge carried more than just sustenance. It carried the faintest whisper of belonging.

Caoimhe settled into the chair next to me, a bowl of her own cradled in her hands. A quiet calm fell over the table, broken only by the rhythmic scrape of spoons against bowls and the soft murmurs of chewing. The stillness wasn’t awkward; it was soothing, a kind of unspoken understanding shared between us.

Every so often, Caoimhe would reach across, her movements fluid and unassuming. She poured a splash of cream into my bowl, the pale liquid swirling and lightening the porridge. A moment later, she dropped a small pat of fresh butter in, and I watched as it melted, disappearing into the warmth with a golden sheen. Each addition made the dish richer, more comforting, and I felt myself relax further with every bite.

I took a slow spoonful, savoring the blend of flavors and the soothing warmth that spread through me. For the first time in a long time, I felt something close to contentment. I thought, in that quiet moment, that I could eat this for the rest of my life and be happy.

“So, Caoimhe, wot stray have you brought in this time?” Odhran asked, his voice gruff as he shoveled another spoonful of porridge into his mouth.

Caoimhe shot him a sharp look, her words cutting yet softened by the hint of humor in her tone. “By the gods, Odhran, you could’ve a bett’r choice of words.”

I glanced between them, unsure whether to be offended or amused. The tension I’d felt earlier began to ebb as their easy familiarity played out before me. Their banter carried a warmth that suggested a bond deeper than surface irritation, a connection that was strangely reassuring.

Lowering my gaze, I returned to my bowl, the flavors seemed to deepen with every bite, comforting in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

Caoimhe’s expression softened as she turned toward me, her warm smile full of quiet encouragement. “Now that you’ve had a good amount of sleep,” she said gently, “we can find out more about you.”

Her words sent a small ripple of unease through me, but her tone held no pressure, only kindness. I hesitated, the spoon pausing halfway to my mouth, before taking another bite. It seemed easier to focus on the meal in front of me than to think about what answers I might—or might not—have for her.

More about me. The phrase bounced around in my head, frantic and wild, like a bird trapped in a room. My grip on the spoon tightened as my hand slowly lowered it back to the bowl. More about me.

There was nothing about me.

I was nobody. I was nothing.

The thought took root, winding through me like a choking vine. What did I have except the clothes on my back and the few meager belongings in my knapsack? My chest tightened, and the room began to tilt and spin, the warm glow of the hearth and the soft candlelight growing distant and distorted.

Then, warmth. A gentle hand covered my clenched one, firm but kind, grounding me.

I blinked, my focus snapping to where her hand rested over mine. The spiraling chaos in my mind began to slow, the world coming back into focus piece by piece. The rough surface of the table beneath my other hand. The faint scrape of Odhran’s spoon against his empty bowl. The steady crackle of the fire.

Caoimhe’s eyes met mine, her smile soft and sad. It wasn’t pity—it was understanding, deep and unspoken. It was the smile of someone who had seen too much but still found ways to offer comfort. She knew. Somehow, she knew the weight of what I carried.

The lump in my throat rose so fast it hurt. I wanted to break, to sob, to crumble into the safety of her arms and let the dam burst. I wanted her to hold me, to tell me it was okay to feel this lost, this broken. But the tears stayed locked behind my eyes, my body too practiced in holding them back.

Instead, I let the warmth of her hand anchor me, my fingers slowly relaxing under her gentle touch. It wasn’t enough to make the ache go away, but it was enough to remind me I wasn’t entirely alone.

“Let’s start with your name.” Caoimhe’s calm voice cut through the lingering haze, steady and gentle. It was a lifeline, giving me a moment to collect myself, to breathe.

I nodded faintly, my gaze locked on her. I didn’t dare look at Odhran sitting at the other end of the table. His presence loomed like a shadow in the corner of my awareness, but I couldn’t face it—not now. Instead, I focused on Caoimhe. Her warm eyes, her patient smile, the unwavering kindness in her expression.

A name. I had a name.

The thought was like a tiny flame flickering to life in the darkness. A fragile reminder that I wasn’t nothing, even if I had felt like it moments before. My name was mine, a small but undeniable piece of who I was. It was proof that I existed. Proof that I was someone.

“My…my n-name…name is…is A-Azra,” I stuttered, the words tumbling out awkwardly, each one feeling heavier than the last. My voice wavered, but I forced myself to say it, to claim it.

“Didja hear that, Odhran? Her name is Azra. What’a beautiful name,” Caoimhe said, her voice warm and lilting. She turned to him with a smile, one that seemed to carry a meaning I couldn’t quite decipher. There was something unspoken in the way she looked at him, a familiarity that felt both comforting and strange to witness.

I hesitated, my gaze flicking nervously toward Odhran. He met my eyes, and to my surprise, his expression softened. A gentle smile spread across his face, one that seemed at odds with his earlier brusqueness.

The knot in my chest loosened, though only slightly. I wasn’t sure what to make of him yet, this man who seemed so rough around the edges but now looked at me with quiet kindness. His smile wasn’t as bright or open as Caoimhe’s, but it felt sincere, and that was enough to ease the edge of my wariness.

I ducked my head, staring back down at the bowl of porridge in front of me. “T-thank you,” I murmured, my voice barely louder than a whisper. The words felt clumsy in my mouth, but I meant them.

Caoimhe’s hand gave mine another gentle squeeze before letting go, her touch lingering like a thread of reassurance.

“We are happy to ‘ave ya, Azra.” Caoimhe’s words were gentle, but there was a weight to them, a sincerity that settled deep in my chest. Another look passed between her and Odhran, brief but unmistakable, and I couldn’t begin to understand its meaning.

A comfortable quiet settled over the three of us, broken only by the soft clink of spoons against bowls and the occasional creak of Odhran’s chair.

Odhran had long finished his porridge and now leaned back in his seat, twirling his spoon idly between his fingers. Every few moments, a glance passed between him and Caoimhe. It wasn’t sharp or tense, but it carried a silent language I couldn’t interpret. It left me wondering what tied them together and how I fit into their world.

I focused on my bowl, the last few bites warm and satisfying as they slid down. When I finished, I realized Caoimhe had emptied hers as well. She set her spoon down with a soft clink and let out a heaving sigh as she rose, gathering both her bowl and mine with practiced ease.

“Bring your bowl, Odhran,” she said over her shoulder as she moved to the washbasin. Her tone was light but firm, carrying an unspoken authority I suspected Odhran respected deeply. “It’s high time you left for the fields; they’ll be startin’ wi’out ya.”

Odhran chuckled softly, a sound as low and rumbling as distant thunder. He rose without complaint, picking up his bowl as instructed and bringing it to her. Before turning toward the door, he planted a quick kiss on her cheek, a gesture so natural and familiar it seemed woven into their daily routine.

I watched as he moved toward the door, grabbing a straw hat that hung beside my knapsack. His movements were deliberate, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. Something about it struck me as curious—how this rough, quiet man and the gentle yet commanding Caoimhe existed in harmony, bound by something I couldn’t name.

As the door creaked open and Odhran stepped out into the morning light, a faint breeze drifted in, carrying the earthy scent of fields and fresh air. Caoimhe didn’t look back but busied herself at the washbasin, humming softly under her breath.

“I’ll be back this ev’nin’,” Odhran said as he stepped out the door, his voice carrying with the creak of the wooden frame. He left it open as he went, allowing a soft breeze to filter into the room, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and grass.

Caoimhe called out after him, her tone casual but affectionate. “Don’t be late, Odhran!”

Her voice lingered in the air as the door swung gently in the wind, and then she turned her attention to me. Drying her hands on her apron, she gave me a smile that felt like it could steady even the most frayed nerves.

“Well, Azra,” Caoimhe said with a bright smile, “le’me go ‘n’ grab my other bonnet, and then we’ll head out to the well.”

She disappeared into another room, the soft shuffle of her footsteps fading for a moment before returning. When she reappeared, she carried a small apron and bonnet in one hand, the fabric faded but clean and neatly folded. There was a surprising grace in the way she moved, her steps purposeful but light as she approached me.

“These be my daughter’s old things,” she said, setting them down on the table beside me. Her voice held a note of fondness as she spoke, the kind that comes with memories well-worn but cherished. “She’s got ‘er own fancy ones now from ‘er husband, but these’ll fit you right enough.”

Her words were simple, but the gesture felt far more significant. She wasn’t just offering me practical clothes—she was offering me a place, a connection, however small.

Caoimhe placed a gentle hand on my head, her touch steadying and full of quiet affection. “Let’s take care of your hair,” she said softly, her voice kind and reassuring, as though this small act was as important to her as it felt to me.

My hair had mostly come undone from the plait I’d hurriedly tied when I left Pelargir. Strands hung loose, brushing against my face and neck, a reminder of how long it had been since I’d cared for it properly. Caoimhe’s deft hands moved with practiced ease as she gathered it up, her touch gentle and comforting.

“Hold still now,” she murmured softly, her tone as soothing as her movements. With careful fingers, she wove my hair into a neat, plaited crown, tucking stray locks into place as she worked. Her hands were warm, a quiet reassurance I hadn’t known I needed.

When she finished, she gave me a soft pat on the shoulder and reached for the bonnet. Settling it snugly over my hair, she tied the stays beneath my chin, her touch light but firm. “There we are,” she said with a small smile. She helped me into the apron, tying it securely at the back, and then stepped back to take me in.

“Now yer ready,” she said with satisfaction, her smile widening just enough to make me feel steady again.

I followed her outside, stepping into the cool dew of the morning. The air was crisp and clean, carrying with it the faint, earthy scent of damp soil and grass. A few women were bustling out of their homes, calling after husbands and sons with hurried shouts of advice and final goodbyes. Their voices blended with the quiet sounds of a village waking, the ease of many mornings spent this way evident in their movements.

Mist still clung low to the ground, soft and ethereal, but the rising sun was already beginning to burn it away. Golden light streaked across the village, illuminating the simple rhythm of its life.

My feet still ached in my boots, the leather not yet broken into my feet, but I followed Caoimhe diligently toward the well. A boy I’d seen there yesterday was at his post again, his small frame straining as he hauled up the heavy bucket of water.

Was it really only yesterday morning that I’d walked into this town, uncertain and alone? Now, instead of watching from the outside, I was a part of the flow, following Caoimhe with my own bucket in hand, ready to fill it and take my place in this quiet, simple rhythm.

The other women shouted cheerful greetings to Caoimhe as we approached, their voices ringing out across the quiet morning. They paused only briefly to cast curious glances my way, their eyes lingering just long enough to make me feel exposed. I clutched the handle of my empty bucket tightly, unsure whether to smile or look away, and settled instead on keeping my gaze fixed on the ground ahead of me.

At the well, the little boy grunted with effort, his small frame straining as he hauled the heavy bucket up from the depths. His determination was met with encouraging murmurs from the women gathered nearby, their chatter momentarily hushed as they watched him work.

With a final heave, the bucket emerged, water sloshing over its edges. One of the women darted forward, catching the heavy pail and hauling it onto the well’s ledge with practiced ease. A chorus of cheers erupted, loud and boisterous, as if he’d achieved a great victory.

The boy straightened his back, his chest puffed with pride as he strutted around, basking in their approval. Their laughter echoed warmly, filled with genuine affection, and Caoimhe joined in, her laugh a light, musical sound that made me pause.

I stopped a few paces short of the group, watching quietly as they moved with an ease born of familiarity. Their interactions were fluid, every smile, laugh, and word of praise fitting together effortlessly, as though they had shared this routine countless times before.

It was a world I had only ever observed from a distance, and now, even standing on its edge, I felt both drawn in and hesitant to step fully into it.

Caoimhe glanced over her shoulder and smiled at me, a look of reassurance that made me feel just a little braver.

You could stay here, my traitorous mind whispered. No more walking. It would be safe.

The thought was as tempting as it was dangerous, and I let it linger, just for a moment. My mind drifted into a daydream of what the future might be like here. I imagined myself easing into the quiet rhythms of this little village, no longer an outsider but a part of its heart. I thought of my dream—the warmth of the garden, the safety it promised. I could almost smell the fresh-baked bread wafting through the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the fields.

I pictured my scarred hands growing more worn, not from hardship but from honest work in a farmhouse of my own. Late nights by the fire, early mornings filled with purpose. I saw the glow of my own hearth, steady and unyielding. And then, a fragile hope—possibly a family. Laughter filling the rooms, hands reaching for mine, belonging.

Ungoránë.

His name struck like a lightning bolt, cutting through the softness of the daydream. My heart gave a little hiccup, and I ducked my head, the warmth of the imagined future dissolving into cold reality. I didn’t even know where I was, not truly. I wasn’t sure I could stay here. I was getting ahead of myself, letting myself fall into fantasies when I didn’t have that luxury.

The last letter I sent… I had told Ungoránë I would be in the city. There was a job waiting for me there, a chance at a new beginning. I couldn’t shun his kindness—not after everything he had done for me. He had gifted me this opportunity, the possibility of a new life. I owed it to him—and to myself—to take that chance.

I thought of our last conversation, sitting in the garden together. His calm voice, the way he looked at me as though I was someone worth listening to. I had only known him for a brief time, but the ache of missing him was undeniable. With him, I had felt safe in a way I hadn’t in years, perhaps ever.

My stomach twisted, a dull ache spreading through me as I clenched the front of my dress tightly in my hand. The daydreams slipped further away, leaving behind only the uncertainty of the path ahead.

“…Azra.”

The sound of my name pulled me sharply back to reality, cutting through the haze of my wandering thoughts. I blinked, realizing with a jolt that nearly every pair of eyes around the well was fixed on me. I had missed whatever was said before, but it wasn’t hard to guess. I was being introduced.

Shyness washed over me in a wave, cold and heavy. My instinct was to hang back, to make myself small and unnoticeable, but their gazes pinned me in place. Caoimhe turned to me with another of her warm, reassuring smiles. It helped—just a little—but the weight of the others’ stares was harder to shake.

Some of them smiled kindly, their curiosity tempered with cautious welcome. But there were others whose expressions were tighter, their eyes sharper. Suspicion flickered in their gazes, unspoken questions hanging heavy in the air: Where did she come from? Who is she? Is her name even the truth?

The accusations weren’t voiced, but I could see them plainly, hear them in the quiet judgment lingering on their faces. I could feel myself shrinking under their scrutiny, the edges of my vision starting to darken. My chest tightened, each breath shorter and more labored than the last. The panic was creeping in, pressing at the edges of my mind like a heavy fog.

My hand instinctively clenched the handle of the empty bucket, the rough wood grounding me for only a moment before the weight of their eyes threatened to crush me again. I wanted to speak, to say something—but the words stuck in my throat, frozen behind the knot of fear growing there.

Caoimhe stepped closer, her presence a steadying force. She didn’t say anything, didn’t rush me, but the warmth in her eyes was enough to cut through the haze just a little. Her subtle shift drew some of the attention away, breaking the sharpness of the moment, and I took a shaky breath, clinging to the fragile thread of calm she offered.

Caoimhe’s gentle smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing her face. Then, with practiced ease, she smiled widely again and turned back to the others. She spoke, her words calm and fluid, though I no longer heard them. The rushing in my ears drowned out everything else, a deafening roar of panic that made it hard to breathe.

Their attention shifted from me to her, the weight of their stares lessening but not disappearing entirely. A few glances still darted my way, sharp and questioning. I could feel them, like pin pricks against my skin, even as I focused on the ground in front of me, willing myself to stay upright.

Then, gently, Caoimhe’s hands rested on my back. Her touch was steady and grounding, a quiet insistence that pulled me from the spiral threatening to consume me. With calm assurance, she began to steer me away from the well, her pace unhurried but deliberate, as though we had all the time in the world.

At some point, I must have dropped the bucket. It remained behind, unfilled and forgotten, a small casualty of my unraveling. The murmuring crowd faded into the background, their voices blending with the soft rustle of the morning breeze as we moved further away.

Each step we took eased the crushing weight in my chest just a little, enough for me to draw a shaky breath. But the heaviness lingered, a sharp reminder of how exposed I had felt under their scrutiny, how quickly the fragile calm I’d found could slip away.

Once we were back inside, I sank into the nearest chair, dazed and silent. My hands rested limply in my lap, the faint tremor still lingering in my fingers. Caoimhe moved around the kitchen with the same ease she’d shown the day before, her motions fluid and familiar, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

For a while, the only sounds were the soft clatter of dishes and the creak of floorboards beneath her feet. The quiet wasn’t oppressive, but it left too much space for my thoughts to run wild.

Finally, she spoke, her tone as steady as her movements. “I don’t know what happened to ya, lass,” she said, her words careful but certain, “but I’s keen to know fear when I see it.”

Her voice didn’t carry judgment—only understanding. She didn’t look at me as she continued her work, giving me space to process her words without the pressure of her gaze.

“You needn’t fear these folks,” she added gently. “They don’t mean ya any harm. They’re just curious, is all.”

Her words hung in the air, wrapping around me like a lifeline. I wanted to believe her, to let go of the gnawing tension in my chest, but the instinct to distrust was too deeply rooted. I glanced down at my hands, scarred and clenched, and tried to force them to relax.

Caoimhe didn’t push for a response, continuing her tasks as if we had all the time in the world. Her presence, steady and unshakable, was enough to keep the panic at bay, even if it couldn’t fully chase away the shadows.

A great tidal wave of emotion threatened to crash over me, pulling me under with its weight. My chest tightened, my throat constricting as I fought to keep it at bay. Not now. I swallowed hard, forcing the rising tide back, and took a slow, steady breath. One breath, then another, until the trembling in my hands began to ease.

When I felt that I could speak without my voice breaking, I said softly, “I am t-traveling to M-Minas T-Tirith.”

The words felt heavier than I expected, as though saying them aloud made them more real, more final. I dared a glance at Caoimhe. Her hands paused briefly in their work, her gaze flicking to me, thoughtful and quiet, before returning to her task. “That’s quite the journey for ya, lass, t’be all alone. It’s nearly a ten-day walk from here,” she said, her tone a mixture of concern and curiosity.

I nodded, my throat tightening under the weight of her words. The distance was daunting enough without the reminder of how truly alone I was. Still, I forced myself to respond, my voice hesitant still. “I…I h-have a p-position,” I began, my hands fidgeting with the edge of my dress. “To learn t-to…to be a s-seamstress.”

She turned to me now, her expression softened, and a small smile touched her lips as she studied me. “A seamstress, is it? That’s good work, lass. Honest work.” She paused, her gaze thoughtful. “Though I reckon you’ve got a fair bit o’ grit t’be makin’ such a journey for it.”

Her words caught me off guard, the hint of pride in her tone unfamiliar but strangely comforting. I nodded again, unsure how to respond, and looked down at my lap, my fingers twisting the fabric of my dress as I fought to steady my breath.

“A noble position, to be sure…” Caoimhe said, her voice kind but probing as she moved to the table, settling into a chair across from me with a deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving mine. “But don’tcha think there be positions for ya in Pelargir?”

Her question hung in the air, soft but pointed, and I felt the weight of it settle over me. My hands stilled in my lap, the fabric of my dress still bunched between my fingers.

I shook my head, my vision blurring slightly as I fought to find the words. “I…” My voice broke, and I swallowed hard, willing the bile in my throat to stay down. “There was n-nothing,” I finally managed, the words barely above a whisper.

Caoimhe nodded slowly, her face soft with understanding. She didn’t ask more, and for that, I was grateful. “Well,” she said gently, breaking the silence, “le’me speak with Odhran this evenin’. We’ve got some supplies to trade in Arnach, and he was plannin’ on takin’ the wagon with wee Branigan to help ‘im.” She paused, studying me carefully before continuing. “If ye plan on goin’ on to the city, lass, Odhran can at least get’cha that much closer.”

Her words settled over me like a balm, the kindness in them threatening to undo me entirely. Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them, and I blinked rapidly, trying to keep them at bay. “You’re all being so k-kind to m-me,” I choked out, my voice trembling.

Caoimhe reached out without hesitation, her work-worn hand finding mine. She gave it a firm, reassuring squeeze, her grip steady and unwavering. “We’ve no reason not to be, lass,” she said softly, her voice full of warmth.

And that was it. The dam broke.

The sobs came fast and heavy, shaking my entire frame as the tears poured out. I cried into her shoulder, clutching at the fabric of her dress as though it could anchor me, keep me from falling apart entirely. I cried for the family I didn’t have, for the mother I never got to know, for the father who had cast me aside. I cried for the loneliness that had followed me, unrelenting, for so long.

Caoimhe said nothing, just held me close, her presence a steadying force against the tide of grief and pain that had finally spilled over. For the first time in what felt like forever, I let it all out, safe in the knowledge that she would not judge me, that she wouldn’t let go.

When I finally managed to pull myself together, Caoimhe dried my face with the edge of her apron. Her touch was gentle, her movements unhurried, as if there was no rush for me to regain my composure. Once she was satisfied, she gave me a kind smile and stood.

The rest of the day passed in quiet, purposeful work around the farmhouse. Caoimhe led the way, her steady presence guiding me through the tasks as if I’d been part of her life for years. She showed me how to make dough for bread, her hands moving deftly as she explained the process. “Ye want t’knead it just enough so it rises nice ‘n’ light,” she said, her tone patient as I clumsily mirrored her movements.

She pointed to the bundles of dried herbs hanging from the mantel, naming each one with the ease of someone who’d grown up knowing them. “This ‘ere’s rosemary—ye’ll find it wild along the hillsides. An’ this one, thyme—real good fer soups.” She didn’t just name them; she told me where to find them, how to use them, and what they could do.

All the while, she didn’t ask me any more questions. She simply talked, her voice a gentle rhythm that filled the spaces between us. Her stories ranged from the practical—how to keep dough from sticking, where the best berries grew—to little anecdotes about the village and its people.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of expectation was gone. I wasn’t being pressed for answers I didn’t have or judged for the ones I did. Caoimhe’s words filled the silence in a way that felt natural, comforting, and as the hours passed, I found myself listening more closely, the tension in my shoulders easing bit by bit.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and amber, the door creaked open, and Odhran stepped inside. The scent of earth and hay clung to him, mingling with the warmth of the kitchen. He was greeted with a kiss from Caoimhe, her hands resting briefly on his shoulders as they exchanged soft words about the day and the harvest.

Their voices blended into the homely rhythm of the evening, grounding the space with an ease I admired but didn’t fully understand. As they spoke, the stew simmered gently on the hearth, its rich aroma filling the room and mingling with the scent of freshly baked bread cooling on the table. 

We sat down together to share the meal, the table laden with simple but abundant fare. The stew was hearty, packed with fresh vegetables I had helped peel and chop under Caoimhe’s careful guidance. The bread, golden and soft, was my first attempt at making dough, and the pride I felt seeing it on the table was almost as satisfying as the smell of it.

As I tasted the meal, warmth blossomed in my chest. It wasn’t just the delicious food or the effort I’d put into making it—it was the sense of being part of something, however briefly. I felt proud of what I had accomplished, but more than that, I felt included, as though I had carved out a small space for myself in their world.

The conversation around the table flowed easily, and though I mostly listened, their laughter and words drew me in. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like an outsider.

After dinner, the quiet of the evening settled over the farmhouse like a comforting blanket. Caoimhe retrieved a sewing basket from its place by the hearth and set to work repairing a pair of Odhran’s trousers, her needle glinting faintly in the candlelight. Odhran sat nearby, a whetstone in hand as he carefully sharpened a scythe, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone blending with the crackle of the fire.

The calm was palpable, wrapping around us like the warmth of the hearth. I felt at ease here, more so than I had in a very long time. My gaze lingered on the scene, committing it to memory—the steady hum of shared purpose, the unspoken bond between two people who had carved out a life together. I didn’t want to forget this feeling.

For once, I felt wanted. Welcomed.

The thought stirred something deep within me, and my mind drifted to Ungoránë. I realized, with a small jolt, that I wanted to write to him. I wanted to share this fleeting sense of peace, to let him know how his kindness had given me the chance to experience something like this.

With quiet purpose, I unfolded my writing bundle at the table, the candlelight casting soft shadows across the parchment. I dipped my pen into the ink, hesitating for a moment as I tapped it gently against my chin. What could I say? How could I capture this moment—the calm, the warmth, the faint, fragile hope blooming within me?

I closed my eyes, breathing in the scents of bread and stew still lingering in the air, and began to write.

Ungoránë,  

It has been nearly three days since I left Pelargir. I am embarrassed to tell you how severely unequipped I found myself. 

I paused, the quill hovering over the parchment as doubt crept in. Would Ungoránë be disappointed in me? The thought struck like a stone, heavy and cold in my chest. I hadn’t waited for his response before leaving Pelargir, too eager—or perhaps too scared—to delay my journey.

My hand drifted to my stomach, where my money belts were still securely wrapped, filled with the coins he had entrusted to me. He had given me so much—more than I could have asked for, more than I could repay. What if he regretted that moment of generosity? What if, upon reading this letter, he saw me as ungrateful or foolish?

The doubts swirled, louder and heavier, until the ache in my chest became unbearable. I shook my head, willing the thoughts away, and carefully folded the parchment. The ink had barely dried, but I found myself wrapping my writing things back into their bundle, as if closing them away might quiet my mind.

I couldn’t be sure of how he would feel when he saw me again, but I could only hope—hope that he would be pleased, hope that his kindness had not been misplaced.

With the bundle safely secured, I leaned back in my chair, staring into the flickering light of the candle. My heart felt heavy, but beneath the weight, a fragile thread of determination remained. I would press forward, and perhaps, when I reached Minas Tirith, I would find my answers.

It wasn’t long after our first conversation in the garden that Ungoránë left. To my surprise, his absence left me with an unexpected sense of loneliness. We had only spent a brief time together, yet his departure stirred an ache I didn’t fully understand.

When he returned, I was unprepared for the wave of emotion that swept over me. He approached quietly, a small bundle cradled in his hands, and placed it gently on the table beside my hospital bed. I tried to mask the strange mix of surprise and awe that rose within me, but my voice betrayed me as I spoke. The gift felt like too much, more than I deserved.

If Ungoránë noticed, he was kind enough to not mention it. I was grateful for that. Once again, he invited me to sit in the garden, and once again, he patiently helped me there. His hand gripped mine firmly, his other resting gently on my shoulder as he guided me. I couldn’t ignore the flush of embarrassment at my frailty, but he never spoke of it, never made me feel lesser. Despite my lingering uncertainty, he was the first truly kind soul I ever knew.

We spoke briefly, the sunlight glinting off of the edges of his armor as he told me about his post in Osgiliath. He spoke of the men on his patrol, his voice steady but edged with the weight of responsibility. Then, with a final farewell, he was off—leading a squad of fresh recruits to reinforce the lines there. 

I did not open the bundle until right before I left the hospital, weeks after Ungoránë’s departure. When I finally untied the ribbon, I was stunned not only to find the parchment, ink, and a quill, but also two small purses. One held enough gold to see me through several weeks, and the other was enough to pay for a fortnight at an inn; all with a letter outlining where each purse would get me the most value and was still in the part of the city where I would feel safe. Also, an explanation of how to write him back and where to send it. 

I tried to offer payment to the nurses and doctors who had cared for me, but they refused outright, brushing off my attempts with kind but firm smiles. In the end, I stayed under their care for nearly a month, slowly regaining my strength. The kindness of Ungoránë, and of those who had looked after me, lingered in my thoughts long after I left, a quiet reminder that perhaps the world wasn’t all cruel. 

Once I was settled into one of the inns Ungoránë had recommended, I wrote to him immediately. The act of writing felt strange, so different from my crude attempts with fireplace charcoal. My first draft ended up in the fireplace itself, crumpled into a ball and thrown in a fit of frustration. My trembling hand had made the letters uneven, and the sight of them made my temper flare.

I cursed under my breath, pushing back from the table to pace the small room. This letter had to be perfect. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to prove—only that it mattered. When the realization hit me that I’d wasted a precious sheet of parchment, I cursed myself even louder. Digging my fingers into my hair, I gripped tightly and forced myself to breathe. Calm down! I told myself, though the words felt like a command I could barely obey.

Writing the letter set my nerves on edge. I sat down again, gripping the quill tightly as I fought to steady my trembling hand. Taking a deep breath, I forced my body to relax, though my heart continued to flutter. Why am I so nervous? The question lingered, unanswered, as I pressed the nib to the parchment once more.

This time, I moved slowly, each stroke deliberate, every letter precise. The hours slipped away unnoticed, the world around me narrowing to the quiet scratch of the quill and the steady rhythm of my focus. When I finally signed my name, a wave of exhausted relief swept over me. It felt as if I had poured a part of myself into those carefully crafted words.

I sank back into the chair, a triumphant smile spreading across my face. I had done it—written my first letter. To my first… I hesitated, the word catching in my thoughts. Friend.

The realization sent a flush creeping up my neck, warming my cheeks until I could feel the heat of it. Quickly, yet with great care, I folded the letter, handling it as if it might fall apart under the weight of its significance. I couldn’t let myself dwell too long; the nerves were already creeping back. I resolved to send it immediately—before I had the chance to second-guess myself.

It didn’t take long to find the post office, but my steps faltered as I approached. I lingered outside, watching warily as people moved in and out of the building, their faces indifferent as they carried on with their business. My letter was safely tucked into the pocket of my dress, yet my hand rested over it protectively, as if someone might snatch it away or it might vanish entirely as I moved through the streets.

I stood there, frozen by the conflict in my mind. Part of me longed to march inside and send it without hesitation, while another part bristled with mistrust, convinced it might get lost or never reach its destination. The weight of the letter seemed heavier than it had moments before, carrying with it both hope and fear.

Taking a steadying breath, I forced my feet to move, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last. The building seemed imposing, its simple structure somehow overwhelming under the weight of my nerves. The moment I crossed the threshold, the air felt stifling, the murmur of voices and the shuffle of movement inside amplifying my unease.

I clutched the letter tighter in my pocket, my fingers trembling as I scanned the room. Strangers milled about—some handing over packages, others exchanging coins or chatting casually with the clerks. They didn’t seem to notice me, yet I couldn’t shake the sensation that every eye was on me, that they somehow knew this letter held a piece of myself.

My heart raced as I approached the counter, and I had to remind myself to breathe. A man stood there, older, with a face lined by years but not unkind. He glanced up from his work and gave me a small nod. “How can I help you?” he asked in a tone that was calm but brisk, used to the endless flow of customers.

I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of my voice. Slowly, I pulled the letter from my pocket and placed it on the counter, my hand lingering over it as if letting go might sever a vital connection. “I n-need… to s-send this,” I said, the words barely louder than a whisper.

The postmaster gave a slight smile and nodded again, his movements efficient as he reached for the letter. My stomach twisted as he inspected it, turning it over in his hands. I fought the urge to snatch it back, irrational fears surging: What if he loses it? What if he reads it? My nails dug into my palm, my left hand spiking in a familiar pain as my nails dug into the sensitive scar, grounding me as I struggled to keep my composure.

“This will need sealing,” he said, his voice drawing me out of my spiraling thoughts. He retrieved a small stick of red wax and lit a flame, melting it over the fold. The sharp smell filled the air as the wax dripped, pooling neatly before he pressed it with a stamp. “There. That should keep it secure.”

I watched, transfixed, as he handed the sealed letter back to me briefly. “Would you like to check it?” he asked, his tone careful, as though he could sense my hesitation. I shook my head quickly, afraid my hands might betray me if I touched it again.

Before he could place the letter into the mailbag, I hesitated. “W-wait,” I said softly, stopping him mid-motion. “D-do you… s-sell the wax?” The question felt strange on my tongue, and my cheeks flushed as I realized how amateur it must have sounded.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of curiosity crossing his expression. “We do,” he replied, setting the letter down carefully. 

I nodded hesitantly, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. The thought of sealing something with my own hand, something no one else could touch, felt grounding in a way I couldn’t explain. “Yes, p-please, if it’s n-not too expensive.”

He placed wax on the counter alongside the letter. “This will do for most letters. If you want more wax in the future, just stop by.”

I hesitated before handing over the coins, feeling the weight of my choice settle over me. I tucked the wax carefully into my pocket, my fingers brushing over it protectively. “T-thank you,” I said, my voice steadier this time.

He nodded once, his attention shifting back to the letter. With deliberate care, he tucked it into the sturdy sack behind the counter. “It’ll reach its destination,” he assured me, but the reassurance did little to quell the knot in my chest. 

As I stepped outside, the weight of the moment hit me fully. My letter was gone—out of my hands and into the world. A part of me felt lighter, freer, but another part remained coiled tight with doubt. Had I just made a mistake? Or had I taken the first step toward something extraordinary?

The days at the inn passed slowly at first, each one blending into the next as I adjusted to a routine I hadn’t known in years. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t waking to barked orders or the grueling tasks of survival. The quiet was strange, almost unnerving, but I made myself busy.

I spent my mornings by the window, writing. At first, the lines were hesitant—shaky letters and uneven strokes—but slowly, the motions became smoother. With the extra parchment I had purchased, I practiced folding and sealing blank sheets, testing the feel of wax under my fingertips, making my correspondence more presentable. It was the only indulgent thing I allowed myself, a small luxury in an otherwise frugal life.

Afternoons were spent wandering the city’s streets. The markets, bustling with noise and life, were filled with the smells of fresh bread, spiced meats, and herbs that reminded me of places I’d never been but somehow missed. With the little coin I had, I bought only what was necessary—dried meats, hard bread, a waterskin, and a sturdy cloak. Each purchase felt purposeful, as if piecing together a puzzle I couldn’t quite name.

Evenings were the hardest. Alone in the dim light of my room, I often sat by a flickering candle, turning the small wax stick over in my hands. My thoughts inevitably returned to the letter. Did he receive it? Would he write back? The questions gnawed at me, but I forced myself to push them aside. I had to focus on what came next.

Two weeks passed, and restlessness began to creep in. The innkeeper was kind enough, but I felt the weight of lingering too long, the pull to keep moving. Ungoránë had said the world was vast and that there was a place for me in it. I didn’t know if I believed him, but staying here wouldn’t help me find out.

I began to pack, carefully arranging my few precious belongings into a modest knapsack. It wasn’t much, but it felt like enough to start. A flicker of excitement bloomed in my chest—tentative and cautious, overshadowed by the familiar nervous twist in my stomach, yet undeniably real. I wasn’t sure what I was heading toward, but for the first time, I felt ready to find out.

My stomach gave an impatient growl as I slid a packet of food wrapped in wax paper into my knapsack. “Now, s-stomach, that’s for l-later,” I murmured, patting it gently as though it might listen.

The mapmaker I had visited earlier told me it would take nearly ten days to reach Minas Tirith on foot. I’d left the shop in a mild panic, staring down at the thin, secondhand town shoes on my feet. How was I supposed to make it that far in these? With the gold carefully hidden in belts around my waist—an old habit of survival—I bought a pair of sturdy boots. They weren’t new, but they were strong, far better than the worn, thin-soled shoes I had been relying on.

Next, I tucked in my writing bundle. My fingers lingered on it for a moment, and a small smile crept onto my lips. It was the first true gift anyone had given me. The bundle was simple yet thoughtful—a small stack of parchment, a vial of ink, and a quill tied together with a dark ribbon. At the time, it had felt extravagant, a token of kindness I wasn’t sure I deserved. Now, every time I used it, it filled me with warmth, a reminder that someone had seen value in me.

When my father sent me away from our family farm, all I had were a few belongings wrapped in a threadbare blanket. That journey had taken a single day, and I had ridden in the back of a neighbor’s cart. But this journey was different.

I let the emotions wash over me—fear, uncertainty, and hope. It was hope, blossoming like the flowers in the garden of the healing house, that stayed with me most.

As I secured my belongings into a well-made canvas knapsack—one I had purchased myself—a swell of emotion overcame me. These items, though simple, felt like a victory. They weren’t just objects; they were symbols of a new life. A life I was beginning to shape for myself. I treasured them not just for their practicality, but for what they represented: the fragile yet undeniable hope of moving forward.

Once I was sure everything was in its place, I crawled into the bed I would leave behind the next morning. My fingers lingered on the straw mattress, its clean scent tickling my nose. It wasn’t luxury, but it was comfort. I closed my eyes and let the stillness settle over me, knowing that tomorrow, I would begin something entirely new.

The next morning, before the sun had risen, I grabbed the few belongings I had packed the night before and tugged on my new boots. The mist clung to the streets like a veil, wrapping the city in a cold, damp stillness. Each breath escaped my lips in soft clouds, the chill bit at my exposed skin. The weight of my knapsack on my shoulders felt grounding, though my heart thudded with a mixture of excitement and unease.

 As quickly and quietly as I could, I wove my way through the winding streets towards the city gates, where the road to the great White City awaited. A few tradesmen were already stirring, their carts creaking and their murmurs to each other carrying family through the mist. I caught a few curious glances from them, their eyes lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle. 

Instinctively, I pulled my cloak tighter around me, trying to disappear into its folds. The fear that I still might be recognized, that someone might call out and drag me back, clung to me like the mist itself. I hurried forward, keeping my head low, my steps quick and deliberate. 

The gates loomed ahead, dark and shadowed against the pale haze of morning. Beyond them lay the open road, a path both terrifying and full of promise. The path to my future life of freedom. The guards here lazily leaned on pole arms, or against the portcullis, their postures relaxed and disinterested. I hesitated, my steps forward faltering as a cold knot of fear tightened in my chest. 

Ugly memories surfaced unbidden, clawing at the edges of my mind. The echo of harsh voices, the weight of rough hands on my skin, dragging me back into the darkness— I blinked hard, shaking my head as if to shake the cobwebs of those memories out, banishing them. My fingers had gripped the edges of my clock tightly, my knuckles pale against the dark fabric. I could not stop now. Not here, not when I was so close. I forced my legs to take another step, and then another. Each one carried me closer to the threshold of my new life. 

The closer I got to the gates, the louder my thoughts became. What if they stop me? What if they ask questions? What if someone recognizes me? My legs felt like lead, every step a battle against the fear clawing at my resolve. 

The guards barely glanced at me as I approached, their eyes dulled by routine and disinterest. Still, I couldn’t stop the flood of memories again—their faces, voices laughing, hands heavy…beating… searching….exposing… 

STOP! I yelled at myself. My breath hitched, and I forced my head lower, letting the shadow of my hood shield my face. You’re free now, I gripped the straps of my knapsack tightly. The weight of it, grounding, but my words rang hollow even to myself. I wasn’t sure I even knew what freedom felt like. Could I truly ever be free of the things I had done, the things they had done to me? 

A sharp gust of wind swept through the gate, tugging at my cloak. It carried the faint scent of damp earth, and something else—possibility, perhaps. My steps quickened as the road stretched out before me, but my heart refused to settle. I hesitated again, just outside of the gate, the world ahead vast and unfamiliar. My hands felt clammy as I adjusted the knapsack, stealing one last glance over my shoulder. The city was waking up behind me, its bustling noise beginning to stir the mist. And just like that, I was out. 

You’ve already survived the worst, I reminded myself, firmly. You can do this. Keep walking. 

And so I did, one step at a time, with the weight of my past at my back and the uncertain promise of freedom before me. 

The wind blew off of the Sirith to the west, its chill biting through my cloak and causing my body to shiver involuntarily. The breeze carried with it an odd mix of emotions—cold discomfort and a strange, fluttering excitement as I started on my way. The fog that had clung so stubbornly to the city began to thin here, being swept away by the wind, revealing the open road. 

By midday, when the sun had reached its highest point, I had already decided that traveling on foot was not as romantic as I’d imagined. I had stopped several times already, tugging off my boots to rub my aching and blistered feet. For a short while, I walked without them, hoping the cool ground might soothe the pain. But the gravel bit into my soles, forcing me to pull the boots back on with a hiss of frustration. 

Each time I stopped, I allowed myself only a small portion of food from my pack—a nibble of dried fruit, a bite of break. I knew I had to converse my provisions for the ten days ahead. Still, hunger gnawed at my stomach, a constant reminder of how precarious this journey would be. In the back of my mind, a thought constantly nagged at me: Should I have left the city? 

I was only a few hours out. If I turned back now, I could make it back before sunset, slip into the city unnoticed, be back at the inn, and pretend this silly decision had never happened. The idea teased at the edges of my mind, whispering of safety and familiarity. But I shook my head firmly, dismissing the thought as I finished nibbling on the cracker in my hand. No, I couldn’t go back. I didn’t want to return to that place, where the memories haunted me at every turn. Memories that clung like shadows to every surface, impossible to escape. 

I straighten my back, slipping back on my boots despite the ache in my feet. One step, and then another. The road kept going on and on, rough and uncertain, but it was mine to walk. I made this choice. I had the freedom to make this choice. I refused to let the past pull me back into his wicked embrace. 

The warmth of the sun on my back grew oppressive, the dark gray wool of my dress clinging uncomfortably to my skin. Each step seemed heavier, trapping the heat against me. I let out a quiet sigh, wishing that I had thought to purchase one of the light, white linen dresses I’d seen displayed in a shop window days ago. 

But it was much too late now. The thought of turning back crossed my mind briefly but I dismissed it with a shake of my head, again. 

I chided myself, A little discomfort is nothing. 

Still the weight of the wool felt stifling, and I adjusted the color with a frustrated tug. I still kept walking. 

When evening finally came, the sun’s warmth faded, replaced by the cool breeze blowing in from the plains and the river. Only then was I thankful for my wool dress and cloak, their weight now a comfort instead of a burden. But as the night air grew even chillier, I realized my mistake—I had no idea how to make camp. 

Pulling my cloak tighter around me, I walked a few more paces before deciding to leave the road and try my luck finding shelter. I stepped off the path, the open plains stretching endlessly around me. The wind cut through my layers, chilling me to the bone. My cloak and dress offered little protection against its sharp bite.

I tried huddling against a small rise in the land, wrapping myself tightly in my cloak, but the cold seemed to seep into my very bones. And then there were the sounds—the eerie cries of strange, unknown creatures echoing in the darkness. Each noise sent a shiver down my spine, my heart pounding louder than ever.

Sleep was impossible. My fear wouldn’t allow it, and the cold refused to relent. Eventually, I gave up, pulling myself to my feet and making my way back to the road. The clear sky above offered little comfort, though the rising moon cast its silvery light across the landscape, bright enough to guide my steps.

I kept walking. My legs ached, my eyes burned with exhaustion, but the thought of stopping again—of being alone in the dark—was worse. The road stretched endlessly ahead, and so I trudged forward, one step at a time, chasing the faint hope of morning.

One foot in front of the other, I told myself, well, more like chanted to myself as I walked. The sky grew darker as the moon ducked below the mountains, signaling that the sun would soon be rising, but I could see lights ahead. I made it to the small village as the sun peaked above the horizon, bathing everything in a warm red and orange. The temperature had dropped before sunrise but now the light of the morning felt amazing, and I could feel the warmth heating my cold skin. 

A few women were already out of their homes, walking with baskets, and a few stood around the well. A young boy was pulling at the rope, bringing up a bucket brimming with water. Men waved to the women as they moved away, carrying farming equipment and leading large horses burdened with packs and harnesses. Some horses were hitched to carts and they rambled past me, onto doing their day’s work.  

I stood back, suddenly afraid of these people that I didn’t know. How would they respond to me? Would they be like my father and mother, angry to be bothered by travelers on the road? Annoyed that someone might ask for something when they had nothing themselves? I trembled from my position right off of the road, staring anxiously and enviously into the town. Shifting from foot to foot, I played through different scenarios in my head, and none of them ended well. I almost turned and began walking again.  

“Oiy there lass, didja walk a’night?” A woman spoke to me from my left, I did not notice how close she had gotten, I was so wrapped up in my worries.  

I gave a little jump of surprise, focusing on keeping my hands clasped in front of me.  

“Didja hear me, lass?”  

I gave a jerky nod of my head, as my throat closed up and I found that I could not utter a word. 

“Ah, sweet thang,” the woman moved closer to me. She was a larger woman, her skirts flowing around her like a small tent, but she still moved with a quick speed. Her hair was tied up under a bonnet, the bill already protecting her eyes from the morning sun. Her dress was of earthen colors and I found them calming to look at. The woman reached out for me, carefully wrapping work hardened hands around my thin shoulders.  

“Look at ye, yer skin and bones! What’re ye doin’ walkin’ out ‘ere in the open where anythin’ can get at ya! You must’ve been freezin’!” She pulled me towards the well where the other women stopped their work and looked up.  

“Pull up some water, lad,” the woman motioned to a young boy who moved to begin pulling at the rope. 

Five women stood around the well, and two sat on overturned buckets, while the others chatted aimlessly, but all stopped and looked up as she drew me nearer. 

“This ‘ere young thang needs some rest, poor dear, she walked a’night from the city!” The round woman who had me in her strong grasp spoke to the other ladies who suddenly surrounded me, making comforting noises. They all spoke at once, and I attempted to keep up, nodding to one, and shaking my head to another. My fear began to ebb away as they sat me down on one of the buckets that were overturned. They reminded me of the gentle nurses at the hospital and I could feel the sting of tears jump into my eyes and I ducked my head.  

“She’s tired, the poor dear; come on, follow me.” The large woman pulled me gently away from the comforting hands of the other women and marched me straight through a door into a warm and open cottage nearest to the well.  

“This be my home, yer welcome to sit wh’re ya like.” She moved into the kitchen while I hugged my knapsack and found a small stool to sit on near the hearth, letting the fire warm my back. 

Not unlike the farmhouse where I grew up, the living area and the cooking area merged into one large room. Large pots hung from hooks in the open ceiling and crates were stored in the rafters, presumably with things that were not always needed. To the left of the doorway, a large hearth dominated the wall and crackled with a large fire. An iron pot hung from another hook pounded into the stone of the hearth and I could hear its contents burbling and bubbling. On the wall furthest from the door, thick wood countertops were built into the wall and a wash bin filled with soapy water stood under the window. The woman disappeared through another doorway that stood to the right of the hearth into a back room.  

To my right, a long table took up the rest of the room, with benches on both sides and two ornately carved chairs at each end of the table. It looked well used with scrapes on the floor where the benches had been moved back and forth from people sitting and leaving. It was such a beautiful little cottage.  

The woman moved back into the room, the bonnet removed from her hair and an apron wrapped around her ample middle, “Th’re now, that’ll do it.”  

I stared at her, not quite sure what she meant to do. She bustled around the kitchen area, rolling up her sleeves as she went. She whipped a small rag off a bowl and the smell of freshly risen dough filled the room. My traitorous stomach growled. She smirked as she glanced up at me as she gently beat the dough. “We’ll get this in the oven right quick, and that’ll be that.” A few quick flicks of her wrist and the large pound of dough became four beautiful shaped loaves.  

“Now th’re, girly, ‘ave you ever churned butter before?” She moved towards a modest churn and brought it over to my stool. I realized she was waiting for my response to see if she needed to show me. Silent, I placed my knapsack next to my feet, not willing to let it out of my sight, and took a hold of the churn handle and attempted to start churning the butter. The last time I had done this was at my parents’ farm as a child. Those memories felt like another person’s life that I watched from the edges of dreams. 

The older woman smiled over me, gently patted my shoulder before moving back and placing the bread on a thin board with a long handle. “I believe in feedin’ anyone who comes off of the road, but not without ‘em doin’ some work for it.” She placed the long-handled board on the large table and covered the unbaked loaves she had just formed with a cloth. With movements that spoke of routine, she then pulled another thin cloth from a basket by the window and pulled out a half loaf of bread. She gave me a warm smile when she handed it to me, “for ya to snack on until we get to luncheon.” 

I was still silent as I sat and worked the butter churn, my arms growing tired, but I kept at it, only stopping to nibble on the half loaf she had given me. The woman worked tirelessly, bustling around the kitchen. After a time, she came over, motioning for me to stop. I leaned back, letting my arms hang at my sides. Dizziness overcame me; my long walk and my sleepless night hitting me and causing me to fall back against the wall. My eyes were heavy.

“Aw, you poor dear. Let’s get you some rest, love.” The woman helped me to my feet, and I reached down for my knapsack. “Tch, just leave it, deary. It’s safe ‘nough in here. ‘Though, if you’d feel better, I’s can hang it by the door.” She reached down and easily lifted it and hung it on hooks that were on the wall above my head. I warred with the feeling of wanting to snatch it up, against the trust I was beginning to feel. She gave a quick nod of satisfaction and smiled down at me, “You can call me Caoimhe.” 

“H-hello.” My voice sounded brittle to my ears, as if my mouth was unused to making sounds. She smiled again, sending my heart pounding, but not in fear. I didn’t understand what I was feeling.  

Once she moved the churn aside, she helped me to my feet. Thankfully, my feet decided to hold me up. She led me to the room that she had gone into before. A large bed took up most of the space, but along the wall was a smaller bed, as if for a young person. “My daughter ‘as been long married, but ev’ry so often she comes to visit us, an’ we leave this, so she ‘as a place to stay. Get some rest, and when you ‘wake, we can talk more.” As I sat heavily on the straw mattress, which I could tell was filled with fresh straw from the smell, my body nearly gave out.

Caoimhe moved towards a wooden chest, opened it, and pulled out a beautiful quilt. When she returned to me, she placed her worn hand on my head, caressing my hair. I almost wept due to her gentleness. She helped me lay down, covered me with the quilt, and my eyes closed of their own accord. 

The only thing that gave me any indication that I was still breathing were my dreams. They filtered into my unconscious mind. I dreamt of my childhood. My mother happy, my father caring. Our farmhouse was warm from the heat of the hearth. Dried herbs hung on the chimney, the heated stones helping them dry. The stew bubbled as my mother told me things I could now not recall. The world as it was…was perfect. I felt loved. I was wanted… 

The next dream unfolded like a gentle breeze, carrying me to a garden bathed in soft, golden light. The floral scent was strong but not overwhelming, a blend of sweet blooms and earthy undertones that wrapped around me like a comforting embrace. 

I wasn’t alone. A strong presence sat beside me, steady and grounding. Though I couldn’t see them—no, not them, him—clearly, I felt his warmth radiating like sunlight after a storm. It wasn’t the kind of heat that scorched or overwhelmed, but the quiet, steady warmth that reached deep into the coldest parts of me. There were no words spoken between us, but none were needed. The silence was profound, filled with an understanding that transcended language, an unspoken connection that felt more powerful than any words could convey.

The feelings the dream held were impossibly vivid. My heart, so often burdened by fear and uncertainty, felt light—free. A sense of safety enveloped me, so complete and unshakable that it brought an ache to my chest, bittersweet and unfamiliar. It was as if I had stepped into a memory that wasn’t mine, yet belonged to me all the same.

I reached out—not with my hands, because dreams are strange that way—but with something deeper, feeling. And I felt him respond. His presence was steady, unwavering, meeting me with a calm that melted the tension I hadn’t even realized I carried. My breathing slowed, my body relaxed, and the garden around us seemed to bloom brighter, as if the dream itself were alive, echoing our shared connection.

For a fleeting instant, I wanted to stay there forever. The ache of safety, the warmth of connection—it was everything I hadn’t known I craved. But even as the dream held me close, reality began to pull at its edges. The garden softened, its golden light dimming, the floral scent dissolving into the cool, quiet air of waking.

It took several days before I could summon the energy to push the next part of my plan forward.

I moved carefully through the city, my movements deliberate and calculated. Each purse I lifted was a step closer to my goal, but I was cautious, never staying in one area too long or returning to familiar streets. The last thing I needed was to draw the guards’ attention when I was so close.

Most days, I forced myself to eat, though my stomach often rebelled, the food barely staying down. On other days, it didn’t seem to matter. I let the hunger burn through me, its sharp edges fueling the fire that still smoldered deep within.

I told myself I needed to keep my strength, but the raw burning inside me never left. It gnawed at me, making it hard to focus, hard to breathe, hard to be.

My mind refused to settle. Thoughts whirled and spun, each one vying for my attention, only to fragment and scatter before I could hold onto them.

I was consumed by the weight of what I had done, of what I still needed to do. The lines between fear, anger, and exhaustion blurred until they were indistinguishable from one another.

But no matter how much my body trembled or my thoughts strayed, I pressed on.

I was so close.

By the time I decided to put my plan into action, I had a modest savings of gold tucked away in the belts around my thin belly. Each coin felt like a step closer to the end, a weight I carried both physically and mentally.

I spent my days and nights wandering Pelargir, finding places to close my eyes for a few hours before forcing myself to move on. The nights were slowly growing warmer, but the heat seemed to sap my energy rather than provide comfort. I grew wearier more quickly, the fire inside me burning less brightly with each passing day.

Near the bar, I noticed several buildings offering small rooms for rent, the cost low enough to tempt even someone like me. On a particularly warm day, I decided to rent one of the smaller rooms for a week, paying the price in carefully counted coins.

The room was plain and bare, with just a small table, a chair, a stool, and a bed. The mattress was tiny, its edges fraying, and the thin blanket draped over it looked no better. But my eyes lingered on the bed, a lump forming in my throat.

It’s been so long, I thought, stepping closer. The last time I’d seen a bed was when I was a young girl, before I left home to work at that terrible inn.

I hesitated, then pulled back the blanket. It wasn’t much, but the sight of it stirred something I couldn’t name.

I laid down cautiously, the mattress lumpy and thin beneath me, but even so, it felt like a luxury. Staring at the ceiling, my mind churned with thoughts of all I had left to do, the steps that still needed to be taken to see my plan through.

But as I lay there, the weight of the past weeks settled over me. My eyes grew heavy, the pull of sleep stronger than my will to resist.

For the first time in what felt like years, I allowed myself to rest.

They had me.

One had his hands around my neck, squeezing, cutting off my air, while the other was tying a rope around my feet. My body twisted and writhed as I shrieked, striking out with my arms. My hands hooked into claws, scratching desperately at their faces.

The room was dark—oppressive. I couldn’t see beyond their leering faces, their cruel smiles etched into the shadows. I screamed again, raw and frantic, hoping someone—anyone—might hear me, might come to help.

Their grip only tightened. One of them grabbed my arms, pulling them away, twisting them painfully. The other bound my feet tighter, his rough hands chafing my skin. I kicked as hard as I could, but the rope held firm.

Their hands were everywhere, ghostly and burning, like hot coals pressed against my flesh. My chest heaved as I fought for air, my screams echoing into the suffocating darkness. I clawed and thrashed, but the blows came—sharp, punishing strikes from unseen fists.

They laughed, their voices cruel and echoing in my ears, and I screamed again, my voice ragged with fear. My vision blurred with tears, but still, I struck out, desperate to escape.

And then I woke.

The scream that had been building in my throat spilled out into the quiet room. My body jolted upright, trembling, drenched in sweat. My breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, and I clutched at my throat, the phantom pressure of their hands still lingering.

For a moment, I wasn’t sure where I was. The darkness of the room pressed in around me, but it was just the faint light of morning creeping through the window that brought me back to myself.

It was a nightmare—just a nightmare.

But the terror felt as real as the air I gasped for now.

Shivering, I was drenched in my own sweat, my body trembling uncontrollably. I tried to get out of the bed, but the tangled blankets around my feet sent me sprawling to the floor. My forehead hit the cool hardwood, and I stayed there, weeping silently. The chill of the floor offered a faint reprieve, but the fear coursing through me refused to ebb.

I don’t know how long I lay there, the weight of the nightmare pressing down on me like a heavy fog. Eventually, I forced myself to move, fumbling with the blankets until I freed my feet. My limbs felt sluggish, but I reached for the little lard candle on the table, my hands shaking as I struck a match and held it to the wick.

The tiny flame flickered to life, casting a faint, flickering glow that pushed back the edges of the darkness. The sun hadn’t yet risen, and the corners of the room remained in shadow. I sat there, the candlelight barely enough to chase away the encroaching void, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the shadows.

I could hear them. 

Faint movements. Pacing. They’re here, I thought, my heart hammering against my ribs, the pain of old wounds stirring to life.

I pulled the candle closer, clutching it like it was all I had. The small circle of light felt fragile, a blessing too small to keep the dark at bay. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to block out the whispers, but they came anyway, just as they used to in my cell: 

“Tonight, you’ll learn your place.” 

The words sent a jolt through me, my teeth sinking into my fist to keep from crying out. They’ll hear me. They’ll find me.

The room felt impossibly small, the walls closing in as I rocked back and forth, quiet sobs shaking my frame. My chest tightened painfully, my breath shallow and quick, and my mind spun with the relentless memories.

Time passed in a blur. The little candle burned itself out, leaving me in darkness once more. But outside, the faint glow of dawn began to creep through the window.

I pulled myself to my feet, every movement a struggle. My body ached, my head pounded with a rhythm that left me staggering. I gripped the table for support, my vision swimming.

This has to end, I thought desperately. Tonight, it ends. I can’t live like this. I can’t live with them stalking me.

They were everywhere. Around corners. In the market. Watching, waiting. They know.

I staggered again, catching myself against the table just before I collapsed. My legs were weak, my stomach hollow.

When did I last eat? 

The thought felt distant, disconnected. I couldn’t remember. When did I last drink water?

The hours, the days, all blurred together. Nothing made sense anymore.

It wasn’t until the afternoon that I forced myself to move, to rise from the creaking bed in the small room. The hours had passed in a haze, my eyes heavy with the weight of what lay ahead. But I had to focus—I had to prepare.

From the small cloth bag at my feet, I withdrew the borrowed dress and laid it across the table. The fabric, once fine linen, had faded and worn thin with time. It looked tired, like me. I peeled off the clothes I’d been wearing and slipped into the dress, my fingers trembling as I tried to pull it into place. It clung awkwardly in some places, hung loose in others, a poor imitation of the allure it was meant to inspire. My reflection in the cracked mirror mocked me. The dress wasn’t the problem—it was the skeleton wearing it.

I swallowed hard, trying to push back the surge of doubt that rose in my chest. It will have to do, I thought, yanking at the fabric to make it sit better. I was skin and bones, a ghost wrapped in a stranger’s clothes. The thought burned, but there was no time to dwell on it.

From the bag, I retrieved the bottle of wine I’d flinched days before, along with two mismatched wooden cups. My hands shook as I worked, uncorking the bottle and carefully pouring the last of my precious herbs into the liquid. The powder swirled briefly before dissolving, disappearing as if it had never been there. I replaced the cork, pressing it down firmly.

My breathing quickened as I leaned heavily against the table, gripping its edge until the trembling in my hands subsided. Focus. You have to hold yourself together, I thought, closing my eyes and forcing the air into my lungs.

With a few deep breaths, I steadied myself and turned back to the mirror. My fingers raked through my hair, tugging at the knots and giving it a rough tousle. The effort was pitiful, but I didn’t need perfection. I just needed it to be enough—enough to draw their attention, enough to make them think they held the upper hand.

The plan unraveled in my mind again as I tied the bag shut, hiding my rags and anything that could give me away. Every step, every detail I’d spent weeks piecing together came rushing forward, pressing against the edges of my thoughts. Would it work? My heart thudded loudly in response. 

It has to.

I closed my eyes again, gripping the bottle tightly and willing my racing heart to slow. The shadows of the past tried to creep in, their voices threatening to pull me under, but I pushed them back.

When I finally stood upright, I glanced at my reflection one last time. Would I even be worth their time? There was no hiding the hollowness in my cheeks or the shadow in my eyes, but there was something else there now—anger, resolve. 

Clutching the bottle to my chest, I whispered to myself, “Hold it together. You can do this. You will do this.”

And with that, I stepped toward the door, the weight of the evening heavy on my shoulders.

The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the narrow streets as I made my way toward the bar. I stuck to the back roads and alleyways, each step calculated to keep me out of sight. My heart pounded in my chest, but I kept moving, the bottle of wine tucked tightly under my arm.

The bar loomed ahead, its sign swaying slightly in the breeze. I closed my eyes for a moment, willing the guards to be here. Please, let them be here.

As I drew closer, a loud shout pierced the air, followed by raucous laughter spilling out through the cracked windows. My stomach twisted, a mix of fear and satisfaction. They’re here.

Peering through the door, I spotted them instantly. They sat at their usual table, mugs in hand, their faces red with drink and mirth. The larger of the two tilted his head back, chugging the last of his ale before slamming the mug onto the table with a loud thud. The smaller guard followed suit, slamming his own mug down moments later. Cheers erupted from the other patrons, their voices blending into a chaotic din.

The larger guard slapped his companion on the back, shouting something inaudible over the noise, and the smaller one barked out a laugh, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand. They called out to the barmaid for another round, waving their empty mugs in the air.

My hands tightened around the neck of the wine bottle, my knuckles whitening. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions building inside me. The sight of them laughing, enjoying themselves, made my blood boil.

But I couldn’t afford to let anger consume me now. Not yet. This was the moment I’d been planning for, the moment I’d waited for. Every detail of the plan replayed in my mind, each step sharp and clear.

Stay calm. Stay focused. You only have one chance.

I smoothed my dress with trembling hands and shifted my weight, trying to steady myself. When I stepped inside, they wouldn’t see the ghost of the girl they’d hurt—they would see someone new, someone they wouldn’t suspect. Someone they wouldn’t remember until it was too late.

This was it. This was the beginning of the end.

I stepped back outside, the cool evening air biting at my exposed skin through the worn fabric of the dress. The darkening street offered cover, its shadows deep and inviting. I couldn’t risk waiting inside, not with eyes that could see through the cracks in my plan. Out here, I could be invisible.

The sun dipped fully below the horizon, the last golden rays fading into darkness. The street lamps being lit one by one, their dim glow casting long, uneven shadows along the cobblestones. I leaned against the wall of a nearby building, my heart pounding in rhythm with every shout and clink of glass that spilled out from the bar.

It wasn’t long before the first patrons staggered out, their laughter raucous and slurred. My pulse quickened when I saw them—my targets. They stumbled into the street, leaning on each other for support, their voices loud and obnoxious. They reeked of drink and arrogance, and the sight of them brought bile to the back of my throat.

They were still laughing when one of them reached out to grab at a young girl passing by, her wide eyes darting between them. She had enough sense to dodge away, quickening her steps up the street without a word. The guards hooted with laughter at her retreat, the larger one shouting something crude that was lost in the noise.

This was my moment.

I slipped out from the shadows, letting the light from the nearest street lamp catch me just enough. My dress clung to me awkwardly, but it didn’t matter. I let my head tilt slightly, my hands resting at my sides in what I hoped was a posture that looked enticing rather than terrified. Every muscle in my body screamed to retreat, to run far away, but I stayed rooted to the spot.

Their laughter died down as their bleary eyes caught sight of me. The larger one nudged his companion, a sly grin spreading across his face as he whispered something to the smaller guard. They both looked at me, their gazes dragging over me in a way that made my skin crawl.

Then, as I’d hoped, they veered toward me, their drunken steps uneven but deliberate. My stomach twisted with equal parts fear and anticipation.

“Evenin’, miss,” the larger one slurred, his grin widening.

I forced a small, shy smile, tilting my head down just enough to appear demure but not frightened.

The smaller guard chuckled, his steps faltering as he tried to steady himself. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ out here all alone?”

Every nerve in my body was on fire, but I kept my expression calm, my hands steady. This is it. This is the moment. Don’t falter now.

I clutched the wine bottle a little tighter behind my back and took a small step forward, my voice soft and inviting. “I w-was h-hoping for a little c-company.” I mentally commanded my voice to steady, my stutter nearly unnerving me, “M-my s-sister is w-waiting for me back at our r-room.” 

The two guards exchanged a brief, stunned glance, their drunken faces lighting up with sly, eager expressions. The larger one elbowed his companion, muttering something I didn’t catch, but I could feel their gaze burning into my back. I didn’t wait for them to say anything further. With a soft smile that I hoped looked inviting, I turned and began my slow trek up the street toward my rented room.

My heart hammered in my chest, each step forward feeling like I was walking into the jaws of a beast. The faint sound of their boots scraping against the cobblestones told me what I needed to know—they were following. It wasn’t even that far.

I kept my pace measured, my breaths steady, though I could feel their presence growing closer with every step. My grip on the wine bottle tightened as I clutched it behind my back. This is what you wanted, I reminded myself. They have to follow. It’s part of the plan. Don’t run. 

The shadows stretched long across the street as the dim glow of the lamps flickered above. I dared a glance over my shoulder and felt a jolt when I saw how close they were—almost within arm’s reach. Their heavy footfalls echoed louder now, their chuckles and muttered comments blending into a dissonant murmur behind me.

I nearly faltered, a rush of panic tightening my chest, but I forced myself to keep moving. Stay calm. Keep walking. You need them inside. 

The larger guard called out, his voice slurred but leering. “You’re in quite a hurry, lass. Where’s the fire?” His companion laughed, a high-pitched, wheezing sound that set my nerves on edge.

I glanced back again, this time letting my expression shift to something more timid, more uncertain. “N-Not far now,” I murmured, just loud enough for them to hear. The larger one grinned, his teeth flashing in the dim light.

When I turned back to face the road ahead, I caught sight of my rented room in the distance—a single, faint glow leaking through the shuttered window. It looked so much smaller now, more fragile than I remembered, and the weight of what was about to happen bore down on me.

This has to work. It has to.

With every step, the narrow street seemed to stretch endlessly before me, but finally, I reached the door. My hand trembled as I pulled it open and stepped inside, the weak hinges creaking loudly in protest. I paused in the doorway, holding it open and casting a glance over my shoulder at the two guards, who had stopped just a few feet behind me.

“Well?” I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are y-you c-coming in?”

The larger guard grinned, his companion elbowing him in the ribs as they both moved forward, stepping across the threshold. The door swung shut behind them with a dull thud, and my heart threatened to claw its way out of my chest.

This was it. There was no turning back now.

The two guards exchanged a glance, their expressions gleeful and sly as they settled into the small, cramped room. The larger one plopped himself onto the lone wooden chair with a loud creak, spreading his legs wide as if he owned the space. The smaller one stood near the corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his eyes darting around the room before settling on me.

“Where’s yer sister?” the larger one asked, his tone dripping with impatience.

I blinked at them innocently, tilting my head slightly, keeping my movements measured and deliberate. It was a delicate balance, staying out of arm’s reach while trying not to look like I was avoiding them. The room was so small that every step I took felt like it brought me dangerously closer to their grasp. “S-She will be just a m-moment,” I said, my voice soft and demure, as if I were trying to reassure them.

They both watched me intently as I moved to the small table. My hands trembled slightly as I picked up the two wooden cups, but I forced a smile and turned back to them. “If it p-pleases you two f-fine gentlemen,” I said sweetly, holding the cups up, “w-would you c-care for some wine? My p-previous… guest…” I paused for effect, letting the implication hang in the air, “…left it for m-me to enjoy, but I w-would much r-rather enjoy it w-with you two.”

The larger guard grinned, his teeth yellowed and crooked, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Well, ain’t that somethin’?” he said with a chuckle, nudging his companion with his boot. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a proper hostess.”

The smaller guard smirked but said nothing, his gaze fixed on the wine bottle in my hand as I poured. The deep red liquid swirled into each cup, the herbs carefully mixed in earlier now invisible, indistinguishable from the wine itself. I topped off each cup, making sure to keep my hands steady despite the pounding of my heart.

I turned back to them, holding the cups out with a polite smile. “H-here you go,” I said, my voice a little too breathless for my liking. “A f-fine vintage, I’m sure.”

The larger guard reached out and grabbed one of the cups, his hand brushing mine briefly. I resisted the urge to flinch, holding my ground as the smaller guard took the other cup. They both lifted the cups to their noses, sniffing the wine like connoisseurs, before taking hearty gulps.

The larger one let out a satisfied sigh, smacking his lips loudly. “Not bad,” he said, leaning back in the chair, the wooden legs creaking dangerously beneath his weight. “Not bad at all.”

The smaller guard nodded, taking another sip. “Not often we get treated like this,” he muttered, his voice laced with suspicion, though the wine seemed to be doing its job of relaxing him. “What’s the catch, then?”

I gave a small, nervous laugh, stepping back toward the wall to keep distance between us. “No c-catch,” I lied. “I just t-thought you two d-deserved something n-nice for all the h…” my traitorous voice caught in my throat, I swallowed, “hard work you d-do.”

The larger guard laughed, a deep, guttural sound that made my skin crawl. “Hard work, eh? Ain’t no one ever said that about us before.”

They continued drinking, their laughter and crude comments filling the small room. My pulse quickened as I watched them, waiting for the herbs to take effect. My smile stayed fixed, even as my nails dug into the palms of my hands.

Just a little longer.

I couldn’t stay out of his reach for long. His thick hand shot out, grabbing my arm with a force that sent a jolt of panic through my body. Before I could pull away, he yanked me toward him, his face pressing into my hair. The acrid stink of sweat, alcohol, and stale breath surrounded me, nearly making me retch, but I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. Just let him drink the wine, I repeated to myself, over and over, clinging to that thought like a lifeline. 

His rough face buried into my chest, his hands gripping me with an entitlement that made my skin crawl. My legs trembled violently beneath me, and I forced them to stay still, to hold me upright. I couldn’t let him see the fear threatening to swallow me whole. I didn’t cry out, though my breath hitched sharply when his grip tightened.

This will be over soon. Just hold on.

But my control—so carefully guarded, so fragile—began to slip. It drained away like water through cupped hands, leaving me trembling and hollow. My vision blurred as tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. I ducked my head, hoping to hide them, to keep him from seeing just how close I was to breaking.

Then his hand shot up to my face, fingers digging into my jaw as he forced my head up, his foul breath hot against my cheek. His glazed, drunken eyes searched mine, and I could see the lecherous hunger in them, the same look I had seen so many times before. That same look that haunted my nightmares. 

“Don’t be nervous…” He slurred. 

And that was when something within me snapped.

The fire that had been smoldering inside me for so long roared to life, its flames licking at my insides, burning away the fear, the helplessness. The fury that had lain dormant all this time surged forward, blinding and all-consuming. It was as if the weight of every indignity, every scar they had left on me, now fueled an unrelenting rage that steeled my resolve.

I forced my lips into a trembling, almost shy smile, one that made his drunken expression soften into a leering grin. I tilted my head slightly, as though inviting him closer, but my eyes burned with fury that I kept carefully hidden behind the mask.

“Wait,” I whispered, my voice soft and wavering, calculated to hold his attention. I lifted one of the cups from the table, cradling it between trembling hands. “D-drink this,” I murmured, staring at him intently, willing him to take it. “P-Please.”

His eyes flickered down to the cup, then back up to me, a drunken grin spreading across his face. Slowly, I brought the cup to his lips, tilting it gently as he drank. His throat bobbed with each swallow, his gaze fixed on me the entire time, his grin never wavering.

When the cup was empty, I stepped back, letting the fabric of my dress slip down my shoulders slightly as a distraction. His hand brushed against my thigh as I turned away, but I forced myself not to react, not to scream. My anger boiled beneath the surface, fueling my every move as I stepped out of his reach.

Behind me, I heard him chuckle, low and guttural, as he slumped back into the chair. The sound of the smaller guard’s snore drew my attention, and I saw that he had already finished his wine, having sat down on the small bed, and drifted into unconsciousness, his cup rolling out of his limp hand. 

When I turned back to the larger guard, his expression had begun to change. The lust in his eyes dulled, replaced by confusion as his brows knitted together. His mouth hung open slightly as he tried to form words, but his lips barely moved. Slowly, his body slumped forward, the empty cup slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor.

The room grew silent.

I stood there, trembling, watching as both men fell into drugged slumber. My breaths came fast and shallow, my fists clenched at my sides. This was it—the moment I had been waiting for. 

This.

I stood there, gasping for air as if I had just surfaced from drowning, my chest rising and falling in heaving, erratic breaths. The anger inside me was no longer a quiet, simmering presence—it had grown, consuming me entirely, roaring in my veins like fire. My vision blurred, and I wanted to scream, to let the fury pour out of me in a torrent of curses and despair. I wanted to curse their existence, curse them to never know peace, curse every breath they had stolen from me and every moment they had taken.

Instead, I sank to the floor, my knees hitting the hard wood with a dull thud, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I pressed them to my mouth, muffling the guttural moans that escaped me as hot tears spilled from my eyes, splashing onto the floor in dark, uneven spots. The room around me seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in closer, suffocating me. I rocked back and forth on my heels, my body wracked with trembling sobs as the rage washed over me in waves, relentless and unyielding.

But it did not fade. It never truly faded. It only ebbed, simmering just below the surface, waiting to roar back to life.

I wiped at my face with trembling hands, smearing the tears and dirt into a streaky mess. My breaths slowed, but my resolve hardened. I couldn’t stay like this. Not now. Not when there was still so much to do.

I reached under the bed, my fingers brushing against the rough fabric of the cloth bag I had tucked away. Pulling it out, I forced myself to my feet. This time, my legs no longer trembled beneath me. They felt firm, steady, as if the fury burning inside me had solidified my resolve, given me strength where there had been none before.

The dress hung loose around my thin frame, the fabric worn and heavy with sweat and grime. I shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. The cold air hit my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms, but I didn’t care. I gathered the dress and placed it on the table, a strange sort of care in my movements, as though it deserved some respect for the role it had played.

Then I pulled my own clothes from the bag. The familiar feel of the fabric in my hands was comforting, grounding. I tied the empty money belts around my waist out of habit, their weight a small reassurance, even though they no longer held the gold I had so carefully hoarded. I pulled on my shirt and pants, the material rough against my skin but offering a sense of security that the dress could not.

Standing there, now clothed in my own garments, I felt more like myself—though what “myself” even meant anymore, I couldn’t say. The person I had been was gone, burned away by the fire of my rage and the horrors I had endured. But this person—the one who stood here now, firm and unyielding—was ready for what came next.

I tightened the belts around my waist, my fingers steady as they secured the knots, one last time. Then I glanced at the two unconscious forms, slumped and vulnerable, their breaths slow and even.

It wasn’t over yet.

Digging through my bag, my fingers brushed against the cold metal of the small knife I had hidden there. I pulled it out, holding it tightly in my hand as I stared at the blade. The dim light of the room caught on its edge, making it gleam faintly. It wasn’t much—a crude, utilitarian thing—but it was sharp enough for what I intended.

I turned it over in my hands, running my thumb along the dull side of the blade, feeling the weight of it. My breathing slowed, steadying as I let my thoughts settle on what I was about to do. Memories began to surface—unbidden, unwanted. Their laughter, their mocking words. The roughness of their hands, the sick pleasure they took in my pain. The way they stripped away my dignity, my humanity, piece by piece.

My grip on the knife tightened until my knuckles turned white. The anger that had been roaring inside me swelled again, threatening to consume me, but I didn’t fight it this time. I let it feed my resolve, sharpening it like the edge of the blade in my hand.

This wasn’t just revenge. This wasn’t just anger. This was justice—the only justice I would ever get, the only justice they deserved.

I turned my gaze to the two men, still slumped in their drugged stupor. Their chests rose and fell in slow, even breaths, completely unaware of the storm they had unleashed in me. They looked so harmless now, so weak, and it almost made me laugh. These were the men who had once held power over me, who had made me feel like I was nothing. But now? Now, I was the one with the power.

I glanced around the room, making sure I hadn’t left anything of mine behind. My bag sat near the bed, its contents neatly arranged around it on the floor. I knelt down, gathering everything carefully, tucking them away. The last thing I needed was to leave behind something that could tie me to this place, to what I was about to do.

Satisfied, I rose to my feet, my movements deliberate and measured. My heart pounded steadily in my chest, not with fear but with purpose. I turned back to the two guards, my fingers tightening around the knife. My mind was clear now, my thoughts razor-sharp, focused entirely on what had to be done.

I simply slit their throats, one after another. The blade slid through flesh with a sickening ease, their sluggish drugged hearts pumping the thick, dark liquid out in slow, uneven streams. Their life-force spilled from them, pooling on the wooden floor, bit by bit, forming rivulets that snaked towards the window. The faint dripping sound of blood seeping through the floorboards echoed in the silence, disappearing into the earth below. 

I stood for a moment, staring down at the crimson puddles spreading out beneath their slumped forms. My breath was steady, my hands calm. There was no satisfaction, no sense of triumph. Just a strange, eerie quiet. Both in the room and within myself. The roar of my anger had dimmed, leaving behind a hollow stillness. 

Carefully, I tiptoed around the blood, mindful not to let it stain me. The smell of iron hung heavy in the air, but I forced myself to ignore it, to focus on my movements. I wiped the blade clean on the larger guard’s tunic, the act mechanical and detached, and slid the knife back into my bag. One final glance around the room confirmed that I had left nothing of mine behind. Nothing that could tie me to this place.

Without any more hesitation, I walked out of the room, the door creaking softly before closing with a heavy thud. The sound reverberated in the dim night, echoing in my ears like the final note of a song, the closing chapter of a story. 

I stepped into the darkening night, the cool air brushing against my skin. The world outside felt strangely unchanged, as though it had no knowledge of what had just transpired within those walls. My heart beat steadily in my chest, and my breaths came slow and even. Behind me, the nightmare that had haunted me for so long lay buried in the stillness of that room, its curtain drawn with the closing of the door.

I kept walking without looking back, my shadow stretching long behind me in the fading light. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was not running. I was not hiding.

I was free. Or, at least, I told myself I was.

The moon had not risen from her hiding place yet and the streets were still dark, I moved in no planned direction, just letting my legs carry me, moving away from that room. I was going to be free of them. I was finally free of them all. The thought repeated itself to me with every step I took, letting it echo in my mind, willing it to take root. I was finally free of them all. They would never again haunt my waking moments with their sneering faces, their cruel laughter. They would never again stalk my sleeping hours, dragging me into memories I could not escape.

The weight of their presence, one I had carried for so long, began to lift. The oppressive pressure that had sat on my chest, suffocating me, eased with every corner I turned, with every shadow I left behind. The streets were silent, save for the soft scuff of my boots on the uneven cobblestones and the occasional rustle of wind through the empty market stalls.

The world seemed indifferent to what had just transpired, to the blood I had left behind. It neither welcomed nor condemned me, offering only the quiet space of the night for my thoughts to settle. I felt the trembling in my legs return, not from fear but from the realization of what I had done. Of what I had survived.

I paused in the middle of a deserted square, tilting my head up toward the darkened sky. No stars greeted me—only an endless black expanse. But I breathed deeply, the cool air filling my lungs and grounding me. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was not running toward something or away from something. I was simply moving forward.

This is freedom, I told myself. This is what it feels like.

And yet, deep inside, I couldn’t shake the faint, lingering ache. The kind that comes not from fear or anger, but from the knowledge that while the demons that once held you are gone, their shadows may still linger. Still, I kept walking. For now, that was enough.

My feet carried me onward, unbidden, their steps rhythmic and automatic. I do not know how long I walked–minutes, hours, I wasn’t sure–but eventually, I found myself standing before one of the bridges that spanned the river winding through the city’s veins. The stone arch stretched over the water below, solid and enduring, a stark contrast to the storm that suddenly began raging inside of me. 

The river flowed beneath my feet, its current steady and unyielding, carrying with it the debris of the city’s day. The sound of the rushing water reached my ears, clear and insistent, cutting through the haze that had settled over me. It pulled at the edges of my awareness, anchoring me back to the present. For the first time since I walked out of that room, I realized how much the fire within me had cooled. The burning rage that had consumed me for so long had begun to ebb, leaving behind not peace, but something else entirely.

A raw, empty ache spread through my chest, heavy and unfamiliar. It was as though the flames had scorched me hollow, leaving behind a fragile shell that felt like it might crack with every breath I took. The fire was gone, but the ashes remained, cold and weightless, filling my lungs with a heaviness I couldn’t expel.

I moved to the edge of the bridge, my hands brushing against the rough stone of its railing. I stared down into the water below, watching as it churned and rippled, its surface catching faint glimmers of light from the lanterns lining the bridge. It was relentless in its motion, as if it could wash away anything that dared enter its grasp. The idea was almost comforting.

The cold air wrapped around me, seeping through the thin fabric of my clothes. I shivered but didn’t move, letting the chill bite at my skin. It was grounding in a way, reminding me that I was still here, still alive, even if I didn’t know what that meant anymore.

I closed my eyes, letting the sound of the water fill my ears, drowning out the memories that clawed at the edges of my thoughts. For a brief moment, I imagined letting the river take everything—the blood, the screams, the weight of what I had done. I imagined it washing me clean, carrying it all far away to a place I would never see again.

My breathing came in ragged gasps, each one cutting through my chest like a knife. It was as if I could not get enough air. I killed two men. The thought repeated itself, over and over, louder with every beat of my heart. I killed two men. I took two lives… no, I took three lives in my revenge.

The weight of it crashed down on me all at once, an unbearable force that left me gasping for air. My knees buckled beneath me, hitting the cold, unforgiving ground with a jarring thud. My bag, my meager collection of belongings, slipped from my grasp and fell beside me, forgotten.

I found myself on all fours, my hands trembling against the cobblestones as the realization ripped through me like a blade. It was not triumph I felt, not freedom. It was an emptiness so vast and consuming that it left me hollow. What have I done? What have I become?

The question echoed through my mind, louder and louder, until it drowned out everything else. My breaths turned into sharp, uneven sobs as the pain rolled over me in waves. Hot tears spilled from my eyes, dropping onto the stones below, mingling with the dirt and grime.

I am no better than the hag who sold me. No better than the guards who beat me, who took everything from me. No better than the man who thought he could buy me with gold. I am them. I am what they were. A monster. A destroyer. A taker of life.

The words burned through my mind, each one a dagger twisting deeper into the remnants of my soul. The fire of my rage was gone, replaced by this crushing, suffocating emptiness. A void that I could not fill, no matter how tightly I clenched my fists or how hard I bit my lip to keep from crying out.

Worthless. The word came unbidden, a whisper in the back of my mind that quickly grew to a shout. I am worthless. I have always been worthless.

I collapsed further, my forehead pressing against the cool stone of the bridge. The rushing water below mocked me, its ceaseless flow indifferent to my agony. What is the point of my life? What am I supposed to do now?

The realization was a weight too heavy to bear. I do not deserve to live. I should not live.

The tears came faster, my chest heaving as I struggled to hold myself together, but I was unraveling, fraying at every edge. The ghosts of my past swirled around me, their voices a cacophony of jeers and accusations. I could see their faces—the hag, the guards, the man who tried to buy me—and now my own reflection stared back at me, twisted and unrecognizable.

I wanted to scream, but my throat closed against the sound. Instead, I stayed there, broken and trembling, the ash of my soul scattering in the wind.

I reached up, my trembling fingers finding the rough edges of the stone wall. My grip was weak, my palms slick with sweat and tears, but I clawed at it, desperate to pull myself upright. My arms trembled as they strained, and for a brief moment, I thought I had found my footing. But my legs betrayed me, shaking violently beneath me before collapsing entirely. I hit the ground hard, the jarring impact sending sharp pain through my knees.

A strangled cry escaped my lips, half a sob and half a scream of frustration. I couldn’t give up. Not here. Not now. With tears blurring my vision, I reached for the wall again, dragging myself upward. My fingers scraped against the stone, my nails breaking as I fought against the weakness that consumed me. But it was no use. My legs gave out once more, and I crumpled back to the ground, my head hanging low as I gasped for breath.

The defeat was too much. Too heavy. It crushed me, pressing down on my chest until I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I sobbed, the sound raw and guttural, shaking me to my core. The realization hit me like a blow—I cannot live like this.

My hands pressed against the ground, the rough texture biting into my skin as I curled in on myself. The tears came in torrents, hot and endless, as I rocked back and forth, the weight of everything dragging me further into despair. My voice broke as I whispered the truth I had been avoiding for so long: I do not want to live like this. I cannot live like this.

The words echoed in my mind, a mantra of despair. My breaths came in sharp gasps, each one feeling harder and harder to take. I tilted my head back, staring up at the dark sky, my tears streaking down my face and pooling at the corners of my lips. There was no answer in the heavens above, only the vast, empty void of the night.

Gasping, I doubled over as the heaving overtook me. My chest convulsed, my body shaking uncontrollably as I retched, though there was nothing left inside me to give. The image of the blood came unbidden, vivid and relentless. So much blood. It pooled beneath them, dark and glistening, the smell of iron thick in the air. It clung to my memory like a stain I could never scrub away.

I pressed my hands against my chest, clawing at the fabric of my shirt as if I could somehow pry the weight off my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs burned, and the air around me felt too thin, too sharp. My breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a desperate attempt to keep the panic at bay. But it was no use.

My mind reeled with the sight of it—thick, dark rivulets trailing across the floor, seeping into the cracks of the wood, dripping into the ground below. I could still hear the soft patter of it hitting the earth, steady and unyielding, as though mocking my every breath. My vision blurred with fresh tears, but I couldn’t close my eyes. The blood was there too, waiting for me, haunting me.

So much blood. So much. The thought echoed in my mind, growing louder with every gasp, every shuddering breath. It was everywhere, and I couldn’t escape it. I couldn’t wash it away. I couldn’t undo it.

I was drowning in it.

Drowning. 

Below, the dark waters flowed, steady and endless, their rhythm unbroken by the chaos inside me. They moved with purpose, carrying everything away—debris, dirt, even the blood that had dripped between the floorboards. They flowed onward to the larger river that would carry it all out to the vast, unknowable sea. 

I clenched the edge of the bridge tightly, finally pulling myself up to lean against the edge. My nails scraped against the stone as I shook my head, trying to banish the thoughts. But they were relentless, just like the waters below. They churned within me, a tide of fear and despair that I could not escape.

I stared at the current, entranced by its relentless motion, its uncaring indifference.

The current beneath the bridge seemed to call to me, its steady flow a stark contrast to the turmoil inside. It promised silence, stillness, an end to the endless running. My tears dripped down, joining the river below, and I wondered if it would take me too, carry me out to sea, away from the shadows that pursued me.

I leaned further against the edge, the cold stone biting into my skin. My breathing steadied, though it came as shallow, hitching gasps. I closed my eyes, letting the sobs quiet. But the ache in my chest did not fade. It only deepened, a hollow void that no current could wash away.

The whispering grew louder, a gentle, persistent call that rose from the dark waters below. It wrapped around me like a cold, beckoning hand, soft yet insistent. Come, it seemed to say. Come, and I will take it all away. The pain, the fear, the memories. Let me hold you in my embrace.

I couldn’t fight it anymore. My trembling arms pushed against the edge of the bridge as I pulled my thin, frail body onto the ledge. My feet found their place, steady for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The world seemed to still around me, the rushing of the river below the only sound that remained.

I stared down into the cold depths, the dark water swirling and shifting like an endless void. It promised peace, silence—a release from the chaos that had become my existence. I felt the wind tug at my hair, tugging at my clothes in the night air. The cold bit at my skin, but I welcomed it. I breathed deeply, drawing in the crisp, damp air of the night, letting it fill my lungs one last time.

I closed my eyes. The whispering was clearer now, soothing in its simplicity. Let go, it said. Let it all go.

With a trembling breath, I let my body tip forward, surrendering to the pull of the whispering depths. The world tilted, and for the briefest of moments, I felt weightless, free from the burden that had chained me for so long. Then, I fell.

I jolted awake, startled by the sudden weight of something landing on top of me. Shouting, I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing. An old man, hunched and grizzled, tossed another bag of trash onto the pile I’d been using as a bed.
“Get outta the trash, boy! Go home!” he barked, waving a knobby hand at me before shuffling off, muttering under his breath as he disappeared down the alley.
My hands trembled as I brushed myself off, glancing around to orient myself. I still clutched the small purse I had lifted earlier, my fingers tightening around it as if it were my only support. The thought of food flickered in my mind like a faint, desperate hope.
Back on the street, I realized I had no idea where I was. The buildings here were unfamiliar, their facades worn and sagging as if the weight of years had bent them in place. I didn’t know how far I had run–or even where the keep was anymore. My surroundings felt foreign and hostile, the rough cobblestones beneath my bare feet only adding to my misery.
Each step sent a jolt of pain through my aching soles, but I forced myself to keep moving, clutching the purse like it could save me from the gnawing weakness in my body. I staggered along, my legs wobbling beneath me as the hunger hollowed me out further with every passing moment.
Eventually, my aimless wandering brought me to a side road. A small, weathered sign hung above a doorway, the painted letters just barely legible: Food, Drinks, Women.
I hesitated, my hand tightening instinctively on the purse. The thought of food gnawed at my resolve, pushing me forward despite the unease bubbling in my chest. My stomach growled loudly, and with one last glance around the quiet street, I stepped through the open doorway.
“Yer too young to be ’ere! Out with ye!” an older man barked from behind the bar, his weathered face scowling at me.
“P-please, ser,” I pleaded, holding out my stolen coin in trembling hands. “Just a’b-bita f-food.”
I prayed he wouldn’t ask where the coin had come from, wouldn’t press questions I couldn’t answer. His eyes narrowed as he glanced at my hand, suspicion flickering briefly in his gaze. But then he shrugged, motioning for me to come forward.
The bar was mostly empty, the quiet of the early day hanging in the air. I slid onto a stool, pushing the coin toward him, and he pocketed it without a word. Moments later, he placed a bowl and a quarter-loaf of bread on the table in front of me.
I snatched the bread up immediately, sinking my teeth into it. The loaf was old and stale, but I didn’t care. The taste, rough and dry though it was, made me hum softly with relief. My stomach, long since starved of real food, welcomed the sensation.
I dunked the bread into the greasy porridge, letting the thin liquid soften it. Each bite melted in my mouth, the grease clinging to the bread just enough to make it palatable. I forced myself to eat slowly, determined not to repeat my mistake from the storeroom.
This was no banquet, not by anyone else’s standards. The bread was dry, the porridge thin and watery, but to me, it was a feast. Each bite felt like a small victory.
When I finished most of the bread, I carefully tucked the remaining pieces into the pocket of my pants. Waste wasn’t an option—not now. I tipped the bowl, scooping the last of the porridge into my mouth, savoring every drop before setting it down.
The bartender ignored me once he’d served me, retreating behind the counter as if I weren’t there. I sat quietly, letting the moment stretch out, the food settling in my stomach as I leaned back with a sigh.
My thoughts drifted to what would come next. I had enough coins left for a few more days—maybe a week, if I was careful. But then what? I would need more. More food, more coin, and perhaps a plan to ensure I didn’t find myself back on the street or in worse trouble.
For now, though, I let myself enjoy the rare quiet, if only for a little while.
People began filtering in from the street, their voices breaking the quiet that had lingered in the room. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as they were pulled out, the newcomers calling out to the bartender for food or drink. The low hum of conversation filled the air, each voice blending into the growing din.
I tried to keep my head down, not drawing attention to myself as the room slowly came to life.
Then, a group of soldiers entered, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as they made their way to a corner table. Their presence was unmistakable—loud, commanding, and impossible to ignore. They set themselves up as if they owned the place, their laughter and shouts cutting through the other conversations.
My pulse quickened, the sound of their voices tightening a knot in my chest. I forced myself to breathe evenly, to remain calm. You’re fine, I told myself. Just another face in the crowd.
But my heart picked up its pace anyway, beating faster with each glance they cast in my direction—even if it wasn’t meant for me. I hunched over slightly, keeping my gaze low and my movements slow.
I didn’t feel the urge to run—not yet—but the tension coiled within me like a spring, ready to snap at the first sign of trouble.
Not until they walked in.
Them. The two guards.
My body tenses the moment I saw them, the shorter one pawing at a passing server as she walked by. She smacked his hand down sharply, her expression a mix of annoyance and disdain, before continuing on her way. He laughed, loud and grating, while his taller companion sneered.
From my chair, I watched them warily, my heart pounding in my chest. They circled the bar with a swagger that made my stomach churn, finally joining the group of soldiers in the corner. Their arrival was met with back slaps and boisterous laughter, their loud voices cutting through the room like a knife.
Fear, resentment, and anger simmered in my chest, each emotion feeding into the other until I felt as though I might burst into flame. My hands clenched into fists beneath the table, trembling with the force of my rage.
What had I done to deserve their treatment?
The question repeated in my mind like a drumbeat, louder with each passing second. The pain they had caused me–physical, emotional–fueled the fire inside me, my anger burning hotter and brighter.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as I pushed back. For a moment, the world tilted, the dizziness hitting me like a wave. My legs buckled beneath me and I collapsed back into the chair, gasping for breath.
My body was weak, trembling with exhaustion and hunger, and the realization struck me like a blow: I am in no shape to do anything.
My head fell into my hands as I struggled to compose myself, my thoughts spiraling. What could I do? What could anyone do against men like them?
That voice—the one that whispered from the back of my mind—spoke up again, stronger this time, insistent.
You can gather your strength.
The thought unfurled like a spark in the darkness, feeding off the embers of my anger.
You could show them what it means to hurt someone helpless. Someone who was… innocent.
A shiver ran through me as the weight of that word settled in my chest: was. I could never take back what had been stolen from me, never undo the pain or the scars they had left behind. But what they did to me—they might do to others.
Other girls might face even more hardship from their hands.
The voice grew louder, more determined, as though it were someone else entirely urging me on. They have no right to walk free, to laugh and boast as if their actions mean nothing. They should know what it feels like to be powerless.
My trembling fingers curled into fists, my breath shallow and quick as my mind churned.
I could stop them. I could make them feel the pain they caused. I could save someone else from becoming their next victim.
The fire inside me, stoked by fear and fury, began to burn hotter, though my body still felt too weak to follow through. But the voice persisted, driving me forward even as I faltered.
Gather your strength.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my ears. This wasn’t just about revenge—it couldn’t be. It was about survival. Mine, and others who might one day face what I had.
The anger inside me grew, fed by every thought of what they had done. Each memory sharpened my resolve until it felt like iron in my chest. The ones who had hurt me—the ones who had stolen so much—they had to pay.
Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself to my feet. My body protested, weak and unsteady, but I refused to let it stop me. With deliberate movements, I pulled the cap lower over my forehead, shielding my face as best as I could.
Without glancing back, I walked out into the streets, the noise of the bar fading behind me. The sun was higher now, its warmth brushing against my skin, and for a moment, the light felt almost blinding. But I didn’t stop.
I had strength now—not much, but enough. Enough to keep moving, enough to begin. I needed shelter, somewhere to gather myself. Somewhere to plan.
This wasn’t the end. Not for me.
Months passed with me surviving on the streets, flinching what I could from distracted pockets and careless purses. I used as little of the gold as possible, buying only scraps of food when I was desperate, hoarding the rest for something greater. My life became a delicate balance between survival and preparation, though neither seemed to sustain me fully.
I cleaned myself up as best I could, using whatever water I found and patching my clothes when they began to fall apart. But no amount of effort could hide the toll those months took on my body. What was once full and healthy was now thin and brittle, my ribs visible beneath my skin. My strength, which had already been fragile, dwindled further. I needed more sleep than I could ever get, and every movement felt heavy, laced with weakness.
I knew, deep down, that I could never confront two men and walk away the victor. Not like this. That realization consumed me, gnawing at my thoughts with relentless intensity.
I didn’t eat if it meant putting gold away. My hunger became secondary to my anger, to my need to find a way to make them pay. Each coin I saved felt like a step closer to that goal, even as my body cried out in protest.
The bitterness of my resolve was all that kept me going. I refused to let what they had done end with me.
I found myself flinching more than gold eventually. At first, it was small things—pieces of bread, a clean scrap of cloth, anything that could help me scrape by. My clothes, taken from the guard’s storeroom so long ago, had begun to thin and tear. Holes formed at the knees, where I had collapsed too many times to count, unable to rise again until my strength returned.
The more I took, the easier it became. Each successful theft dulled the sting of guilt, the little voice in the back of my mind growing fainter with every passing day. It used to whisper reminders of who I once was, of the things I had never allowed myself to do. But as time wore on, that voice became an afterthought, then a murmur, and eventually, it stopped altogether.
This was survival.
I no longer questioned what I had to do. Each stolen loaf of bread, each flinched coin, became part of the rhythm of my life, a necessity rather than a choice. I lived only for one purpose now, a single, all-consuming goal that burned within me.
No matter how long it took, I told myself. I would see it through.
I couldn’t risk having my flinched gold taken from me. Every coin was a hard-won salvation, and I would not allow it to slip through someone else’s grasp. My old garments, worn and riddled with holes, found new purpose as makeshift money belts.
With care, I crafted two belts to fit snugly around my thin waist. Each was nothing more than a strip of cloth, folded and sewn to hold a few gold pieces in hidden compartments, then tied securely around me. These belts became my armor, my safeguard against the streets.
Purses could be flinched, taken as easily as I took them from others. But the gold hidden against my body? The only way anyone would find that was if I were dead.
And I didn’t plan on that—not yet.
I did go back to the inn where it all started.
The hag was still there, bustling about the main room, her sharp voice cutting through the air like a blade. She placed trays of food on tables, dishes that looked as unfit to eat as they ever had been. Her sneer deepened as she barked orders at a serving girl, young and fragile-looking, just as I had been when I worked here.
The girl moved quickly, her head down, flinching at every word. Bruises mottled her arms, dark patches against pale skin, and a small, fresh cut marred her cheek.
I stayed outside the doorway, hidden in the shadows, staring in. My fists clenched at my sides as anger flared hot and relentless inside me. The sight of that girl, trapped in the same nightmare I had escaped, was enough to make my vision blur with rage.
It was all I could do to keep from storming in, from letting my fury boil over. My chest heaved as I fought to stay rooted in place, my nails digging into my palms. But before I could act, a wave of dizziness hit me like a blow.
My stomach cramped violently, doubling me over. I stumbled away from the doorway, gasping as the pain swept through me. I leaned heavily against the wall, closing my eyes and breathing deeply, letting the sharp agony pass as best I could.
When the spell subsided, I straightened slowly, my legs trembling as I forced them to move. One step at a time, I left the inn behind, the rage simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the moment I could finally unleash it.
I plotted, and I planned.
I walked through this city that I thought I knew, but in truth, I had only scratched its surface. Beneath the bustle of its daylight streets lay an underbelly that festered with rot—a hidden world of shadows and filth that those who walked in the sun would never see. Evil thrived in the cracks, unnoticed by the unknowing and unseen by the unwilling. In this world, I was just another shadow, another figure slipping through the streets. No one cared about an extra person wandering aimlessly.
During the day, I sought refuge in the forgotten corners of the city. I slept beneath stairwells, curled beside chimneys where the warm bricks eased the constant ache in my bones. But rest was elusive. Even in the rare moments when I managed to sleep, they found me.
Their faces haunted my dreams, grotesque and leering, their cruel laughter echoing in my mind. Each time I closed my eyes, they were there, waiting for me in the darkness. It became easier to avoid sleep altogether, to keep moving, to stay awake no matter how my body screamed for rest.
But exhaustion had its own tricks. I would lose track of time, my mind fogging until, without realizing it, I had drifted off. Those were the only times they didn’t haunt me—when sleep stole over me unbidden, bypassing my fear.
Even then, I woke feeling no less burdened, no less hunted.
My life had fractured into two distinct events: before and now.
The before haunted me, a constant reminder of what had been stolen from me. The now hunted me, relentless in its cruelty, offering no solace.
For a time, I tried to find the rich nobleman from before. I didn’t know why I bothered; maybe I had clung to some flicker of hope, the desperate belief that he might help me. That he might have seen enough in me that day to care, to intervene.
I asked about him cautiously, my voice measured, my questions framed with feigned curiosity rather than the panic that always threatened to seep through. People gave me strange looks—some filled with pity, others with vague curiosity, and still others with blank indifference.
“There are many rich men here,” one man had said with a scoff. “That’s like lookin’ for a needle in a bleedin’ haystack.”
Was it something I had imagined? The man’s face, his dismissive words? I wasn’t sure anymore.
My anger, sharp and unyielding, didn’t dull, but I lost my drive to search for him. He was just another demon in my growing nightmare, another pair of eyes that had glanced past my plight without seeing it.
So, I turned my anger elsewhere. It burned brighter, hotter, feeding on every memory, every face that had leered at me, every hand that had struck me. My fury had no outlet yet, but I knew it would find one. And when it did, I would make them pay.

I often returned to the bar where my resolve had first taken shape. From the shadows, I watched the two guards, their familiar faces twisted with the same arrogance and cruelty that had haunted me.
They drank their gold away, laughing loudly as they slapped coins on the counter, oblivious to the world around them. What they didn’t spend on ale, they squandered on the whores who lingered in the corners, feigning affection for the promise of a few coins.
I stayed hidden, watching their movements, studying their habits. Every visit added a piece to the puzzle forming in my mind. My plan was coming together—slowly, carefully, but with the precision of someone who had nothing left to lose.
I didn’t rush. I couldn’t. I didn’t have the strength yet to face them directly, but I had patience. Watching them squander their gold while I starved only sharpened my resolve.
They didn’t know they were being watched. They didn’t know what was coming.
But they would.

On a day when I could manage to keep myself awake, I made my way to the local whorehouse. My steps were careful, my purpose clear.
I approached one of the women, her tired eyes softening when I began to beg. I pleaded for an extra dress, spinning a tale of a beau who would be mightily pleased to see me dressed so finely—a beau who might even ask for my hand in marriage if I could impress him just so.
She smiled at me, the kind of indulgent smile you give a small child who declares they’ll grow up to be the governor of Linhir. There was no malice in it, just weary amusement.
With a small sigh, she knelt beside a modest wooden chest in her bare, sparse room. After a moment of searching, she pulled out an old dress, its fabric faded but still intact. She held it up to me, her practiced eye assessing.
“Yer a’bit small,” she said with a click of her tongue. “But this’ll do.”
I smiled as brightly as I could manage, mustering a curtsy like I might have before. “T-thank y-you so m-much,” I said earnestly, clutching the dress to my chest.
Before she could change her mind, I left, my pace quickening as I stepped out into the street.
Another piece of my plan fell into place. I had no intention of returning the dress, and something in her knowing smile told me she already understood that.

A few more flinched purses, and I finally had enough to pay for the final piece of my puzzle.
I forced myself to stay awake through the night, waiting until morning when the apothecaries opened their doors. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, but I pressed on, traveling to each shop I knew of in the area. At every stop, I purchased all the herbs they had for inducing sleep.
“M-my m-mother is ailing,” I explained to the shopkeepers, my voice shaky but low. “Her only c-comfort now is s-sleep.”
They asked no further questions, pity in their eyes. Gold in hand, they sold me the herbs without hesitation. No one questioned a customer who could pay, and I had enough gold to spare.
By the time I stepped out of the last shop, my belt was considerably lighter, but the weight in my satchel felt heavier than gold ever had.
I slipped into a back alley, rolling out my belt with careful hands. One by one, I added the herbs to the empty pockets where the coins had been stored. My hands trembled, both from the lack of food and the weight of what I was about to do. I knew I should eat—my body screamed for it—but eating would only delay the inevitable.
And I didn’t want to delay anymore.
I no longer wanted food or rest. I no longer cared for warmth or comfort. I only wanted to finish what had been started—what seemed like it had begun years ago now.
My resolve was complete.
A few weeks later, the time had finally come to put my plan into motion.
I waited at the back of the inn, my eyes scanning every face that passed, my breath shallow with anticipation. It didn’t take long before I saw her—the young girl, head bowed, her steps quick and timid. She rounded the corner and headed toward the inn, her posture heavy with the weight of fear.
I hung back, keeping to the shadows, waiting for the moment I could slip in behind her unnoticed.
She knocked on the door, and it swung open violently. A rough hand shot out, grabbing the front of her dress. “Yer late!” a voice snarled, dragging her inside before the door slammed shut behind them both.
I waited, my pulse quickening, and then stepped forward to try the door. Locked.
I hissed under my breath a curse I had picked up from the soldiers at the bar. I stepped back, my mind racing as my eyes flicked upward to the windows. Which ones had the broken locks?
The sun was climbing higher in the sky, and I shaded my eyes with my hand, squinting up at the second floor. I knew there was a way in—I just needed to wait.
Settling back into the shadows, I watched and waited, my body tense with readiness. A few times, exhaustion betrayed me, and I nodded off, only to jerk awake when I realized my vigil could not falter.
Finally, my patience paid off. The back door creaked open again, and the young girl stepped out, struggling under the weight of several bundles. She shuffled off toward the side of the road, her movements slow and burdened.
This was my chance.
I darted up from my spot and slipped into the back hallway, my steps quick and light. The musty smell of the inn hit me immediately, a blend of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and rot. I forced myself forward, knowing the hag would be in the front room, preparing for patrons or tending to the few who stayed overnight.
My heart began to pound, its rhythm erratic and deafening in my ears. My breath came fast and shallow, fear clawing at the edges of my mind. Stop it, I willed myself. You are not scared. You are not running.
But that wasn’t the truth, not entirely.
Every step toward the back room felt heavier than the last. The urge to turn and flee was strong, but something deeper pushed me forward. It was more than fear, more than the nightmare that had brought me to this place. It was the smoldering ashes of what remained of myself—the part of me that demanded this, that needed to see it through.
And so, I walked on.
I made it to the back room, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might crack my ribs, the relentless thud thud thud echoing in my chest. My hands trembled as I knelt by the dirty pile of blankets, forcing myself to focus.
Don’t look back.
The spot where… I shook the thought away, shoving it deep into the recesses of my mind. There was no time for memories, no time for hesitation. I pushed the blankets aside, revealing the loose board beneath. This was where she kept her gold and other valuables.
The board came up easily enough, and beneath it lay the bottle I’d been searching for, half-empty and reeking of her favorite brew. My fingers worked quickly, pulling the cork free with a faint pop. I emptied the herb packet into the bottle, careful not to spill a single bit of powder. The bitterness of the herbs mingled with the sour smell of the liquid inside.
With shaking hands, I replaced the cork and returned the bottle to its hiding place. The board slid back into position, and I hurriedly pulled the pile of blankets back over it, trying to make it look undisturbed.
And then I heard her.
The familiar shuffle of her heavy footsteps echoed faintly down the hallway, growing louder with every passing second. Panic surged through me like ice in my veins, and my eyes darted around the room. There—a cabinet against the far wall, its edges worn and splintered with age.
Without thinking, I jumped up and pushed the blankets hastily back into place before squeezing behind the cabinet. The space was narrow and stifling, my back pressed hard against the wall as I crouched in the shadows.
My heart beat wildly, its frantic rhythm roaring in my ears. It felt impossibly loud, as though it might betray me with its intensity. I held my breath, every muscle in my body tensed as her footsteps came closer.
I waited, crouched in the cramped space behind the cabinet, unsure of what I would do if she discovered me. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a painful reminder of how vulnerable I was.
She shuffled into the room, her heavy steps dragging across the floor. The sound of her weight dropping onto the straw sack she called a bed reached my ears, followed by a low grunt. I stayed as still as I could, my breath shallow and silent, straining to hear her every movement.
More waiting. More listening.
The faint creak of wood made my stomach lurch—she was prying up the board. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands gripping the edges of the cabinet as if holding onto it would keep me grounded.
Please, I thought, the word repeating like a mantra. Please, just drink it. Just take the bottle and drink.
A faint pop broke the silence, and I dared to peek through a crack. She tilted the bottle back, the liquid gurgling as she guzzled it down greedily.
I chewed the side of my lip, my body rigid with tension. I had no idea how quickly the herbs would work—if they would even work at all.
Her voice broke the silence, slurred and muttering. “Strong liquor,” she grumbled, followed by a low groan.
Moments later, I heard the sound of her collapsing onto the straw sack. My breath caught as the room grew quiet again, save for the faint mutters that turned into groggy sighs. She was lying down.
The plan was working, I couldn’t believe it.
I waited, crouched behind the cabinet, straining to hear her breathing. Each rise and fall of her chest was slow and heavy, the intervals between breaths growing longer. I counted them, each one steadying my resolve.
When I was certain she was deep in sleep, I slipped out from my hiding place. My steps were quiet, deliberate, as I moved toward her prone form on the straw sack. She lay there, sprawled out, her mouth slightly open, the remnants of her drink clutched loosely in one hand.
Standing over her, my anger rekindled. The sight of her—so careless, so oblivious—fanned the flames within me, sharpening my resolve like a blade.
I lifted my shirt, pulling out the belt I had fashioned to carry my gold. Carefully, I set the few coins aside, their small weight insignificant compared to what I was about to do. My eyes flicked to her ratty blankets, torn and frayed at the edges.
Without hesitation, I ripped strips from the blankets, the fabric tearing easily under my weak grip. The sound felt louder than it was, but she only grunted in her sleep, turning slightly.
I moved quickly, my hands steady despite the storm of emotions within me. Grabbing her limp arms, I pulled them behind her, tying her wrists tightly with the makeshift strips of fabric. She stirred, muttering incoherently, but didn’t wake.
The sight of her bound and vulnerable stirred something within me—not triumph, not yet. Just the faintest edge of control.
The final touch was the gag. I placed it roughly into her mouth, tying it tightly to ensure she couldn’t cry out. Then I stood over her, glaring down at her helpless form. Anger roiled in my chest, burning hotter with each passing second.
I wish she were awake, I thought bitterly, so she could look into my eyes and feel the same fear she had let me endure.
My hands shook as I reached for my belt, now empty of its coins, and placed it around her throat. My movements were steady, deliberate, as I pulled the cloth tight with what little strength I had.
Her body jerked violently at the sudden pressure, a convulsion that nearly knocked me off balance. I grunted, my muscles straining as I held on. She thrashed, her bound arms pulling against the ties, her legs kicking wildly in desperation. Her eyes bulged, wide with terror and realization.
I clenched my jaw, tears streaming down my face as I fought to maintain my grip. Her writhing grew more frantic, the sounds of her muffled cries and labored gasps filling the small room. Every part of me screamed with effort, but I didn’t dare let go.
This wasn’t just anger—it was everything she had done, everything she had allowed to happen. The years of torment, the helplessness, the pain—I poured it all into that moment, into the belt I held tight around her neck, my hands gripping the ends of the belt as I held them to the floor, leaning my weight into them.
And then it stopped.
Her body slackened suddenly, falling away from me. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by my own ragged breathing.
I staggered back, my arms trembling from the strain, the belt still clutched tightly in my hands. It felt like I had held her there forever, cursing her existence, cursing what she had done to me, cursing the sad, broken state my life had become.
I sank to the floor, tears still streaming down my face, as the weight of what I had done settled over me like a suffocating fog.
I wiped at my face, my sleeve dragging across my cheeks and nose as quiet sobs shook me. Her body lay motionless in front of me, a cruel reminder of what I had done.
I hated her.
I hated myself.
I hated everything—my life, my choices, the bitter, unrelenting taste of hate that burned my tongue like bile.
I wrapped my arms tightly around my knees, rocking back and forth as the weight of it all pressed down on me. My teeth sank into my arm to stifle the scream building in my throat. I bit down harder until the metallic taste of blood spread across my tongue, a sharp sting that finally forced me to let go.
My breath came in uneven gasps as I uncurled myself. Shaking, I crawled toward her lifeless form, my mind fogged with both fear and resolve. I removed the gag from her mouth and untied her hands, throwing the strips of fabric onto the pile of rags in the corner.
I paused, frozen in place, straining to hear any sound from the hallway. My heart raced as I listened for footsteps, for the girl who might have heard the struggle and come to investigate. But there was nothing—just the heavy silence of the room.
Carefully, I reached for the bottle. Its contents, tainted with the herbs I had added, now seemed grotesque in my hands. I emptied the remaining liquid into her chamber pot, wiping my trembling hands on my pants. Then, I placed the bottle into her limp hand, arranging her fingers around it with deliberate care.
It will have to suffice.
The urge to flee pressed down on me like a weight. I didn’t want to be in this room any longer. The air felt thick, suffocating, and everywhere I turned, I imagined the eyes of ghosts watching me.
Two ghosts.
Two people who had been killed here.
That I had killed here.
I left the back door open behind me, slipping out into the streets as quietly as I could. Fear stalked my every step, its shadow looming over me as I darted between corners and alleys, my head low and my heart racing.
The adrenaline that had carried me this far began to fade, leaving a raw, hollow ache in its wake. My stomach twisted sharply, and I stumbled into a side alley, clutching at the wall for support as the cramping overtook me.
I retched violently, my body heaving until there was nothing left. My legs gave out beneath me, and I crumpled to the ground, trembling uncontrollably.
That voice—the small one, the one I had thought long gone—whispered to me from the recesses of my mind.
I don’t do this… Two lives, two lights, snuffed out by my hands.
The words echoed, cutting through me like shards of glass. I curled into myself, wrapping my arms tightly around my knees as the weight of the voice bore down on me.
Then the rage rose.
It surged upward like a beast awakening from its slumber, clawing its way to the surface. A scream tore from my throat, raw and guttural, echoing down the alleyway. I screamed again, and again, my voice breaking into hoarse cries as my body rocked with the force of the memories flooding back.
His lips on mine.
Her voice, selling me.
Their heavy hands against my skin.
Each thought came like a blow, relentless and unforgiving.
Them taking me, using me.
Over and over and over and over and over…
The screams turned to moans, low and guttural, the sound of anguish escaping in waves as I rocked back and forth on the cold ground. The alley spun around me, the walls closing in as my past consumed me, and I was powerless to stop it.
Eventually, I came back to myself.
The storm of fear and rage ebbed, retreating like a tide, leaving me raw and hollow. My body ached with the aftershocks of emotion, and my throat burned from screaming. The memories still lingered, their edges sharp, but I forced them back into the recesses of my mind, refusing to let them replay endlessly.
I took a deep breath, shaky and shallow, and pushed myself to my feet. My legs trembled beneath me, but they held. The cold air of the alley clung to my skin, a reminder that I couldn’t stay there any longer.
I stepped out onto the street, the noise of the city around me both jarring and grounding. My thoughts still simmered with anger, but the intensity had dulled, giving me enough clarity to keep moving.
With no hesitation, I turned my steps toward the old bar.
I left the place where it had all started.
Towards the place where it all would end.

I think what eventually woke me was the stench, it assaulted my nose and I gagged in reflex. The second thing was the blinding pain. Opening my eyes only made the pain worse so I kept them squeezed shut. I groaned and I attempted to move only to find my hands were bound in front of me at my wrists. Surprised, my eyes flew open. The lights pounded at them causing the pain in my head to double. This time I did heave, there was nothing to come up, but I continued to gag and shutter with the motions until my body gave up its fight to empty my already empty stomach. Trembling, I sat up and blearily opened my eyes while I wiped my mouth on my arm. I could not feel my hands, as they seemed to have lost feeling from how tight the ropes were. But it was at this point that I could examine my hand. My fingers oozed and were cracked with dried blood, and some fresh. I choked back a sob at first, and then let them freely come. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I choked and gasped until I could barely breathe. I was going to die. No, I wanted to die. Let death come take me.
“Oy, the little murderess is awake, lookie ‘ere.” I raised my head slowly and looked up through swollen eyes at the man in front of me.
Another man joined him, but I could not see their faces as the light was behind them, and their faces cast in shadows, “I don’t know why you’re crying. You’re the one who killed ol’ Martuf.”
A jolt went through me and I remembered. Sobbing, I crawled forward, protecting my cut hand, attempting to get my feet under me, “No, please, no…” I begged, “I was only defending myself!”
The guard snorted in derision, “That’s not the way Othelia tells it.”
“Please, no, you have to believe me…!” I was at the bars now of this tiny, dirty prison, gripping them with my good hand.
He kicked at the bars, making me fall backwards in an attempt to save my hand, “We saw you, you whore. Bare chested, with yer skirts around your waist. You were gonna go after that sweet little inn keeper too.”
“The man…” I was up on my knees again, the thin shift I wore was not adequate protection on my knees, “Please, there was a nobleman there, he can speak for me…”
“There was no one in the inn when we found you, not even a noble. What a lie! A noble in that rank hole!” The larger guard interrupted and barked a laugh.
The shorter guard spit into my cell, “Murderess. You don’t deserve to live.”
“We might have a little fun before she goes to the gallows yet, eh?” The other man chuckled.
I shrank back, pressing myself into the cold, damp wall of the cell. What could I do? My hands were bound, the rough ropes biting into my raw skin. Pain radiated from my swollen hand and throbbed in my head. My body felt broken, beaten beyond endurance, and my mind reeled from the terror of it all. My stomach twisted violently, and I began to retch again, gagging on the emptiness in my belly. Suddenly, I became aware of their presence–closer now, their breath hot and rancid as they loomed over me like wreaths. Their leering faces swam into focus, grotesque and menacing in the dim light. My heart thundered in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. A scream tore from my throat, the sound harsh to my ears, and then there was another, rising higher and louder as panic consumed me.
“What’s going on!” A voice boomed through my nightmare.
The two demons froze, their sneering expressions snapping to startled fear. They bolted away from me like rats scattering from a torch. A third man now stood at the door of my cell, his shadow casting a long, commanding presence across the filthy floor. I curled into the corner, making myself as small as possible, my sobs choking out between gasping breaths.
“Sir!” The two men snapped to attention, saluting stiffly as they backed away from the door.
The man’s eyes swept over the scene, his voice like thunder. “What is this?” he demanded. “A little girl? Why is she tied up like an animal?”
“Sir, this girl murdered Martuf!” the shorter of the two blurted, pointing at me with a stubby, accusatory finger.
The man barked out a sharp laugh, his voice cutting through the stale air. “Martuf was a pig,” he said dismissively, his tone dripping with disdain.
“I… I was… d-defending myself…” I managed to whisper, hiccupping between sobs as I cowered in the corner, unable to keep my tongue from stuttering.
The man turned toward me, his boots scuffing against the stone floor as he pushed past the two guards. He crouched down, his face weathered but surprisingly kind as he reached out. His rough hand tilted my chin upward, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“She’s just a wee thing,” he muttered, his brow furrowing. “Is there really any reason to have her bound like this?”
The guards muttered behind him, but neither dared to object as the man drew a knife from his belt. The blade flashed briefly in the dim light before he cut through the ropes that bound my wrists. The relief was immediate, though the sting of returning blood made me wince.
He rose to his full height, sheathing his knife in one smooth motion. Turning to the guards, his voice was sharp and unyielding. “Don’t either of you dare lay a hand on her, you hear? Lashings for anyone who does.”
Cold fear sank into my stomach as the two guards glared at me through the bars. Their eyes bore into me, their twisted grins promising something far worse than the cell’s darkness. I could hear them whispering, their voices low and conspiratorial, but the pounding of my heart drowned out most of their words.
“‘E won’t always be here…” one of them muttered with a sneer.
Then they were gone, their retreating footsteps fading into the corridor. For a moment, the cell was silent save for my ragged breaths. I wasn’t sure if I had passed out or if my mind was beginning to betray me. It didn’t matter—they weren’t wrong.
The third man, the one who had freed my hands and offered his protection, couldn’t always be there. He couldn’t stop them from finding me when the evenings stretched long or when the guards changed shifts.
They made sure of that.
Quick, brutal beatings came first—sharp fists to my ribs or slaps that left my ears ringing. But it didn’t end there. They took turns, each watching for the other to ensure they wouldn’t be caught. Their enjoyment grew darker, more twisted. I could do nothing to stop them.
They would tie my hands, binding them so tightly that my skin burned, then leave me hanging from a hook in the wall. The rough stone scraped against my back, the weight of my body pulling painfully on my shoulders. My cries echoed in the empty cell, unheard and unanswered.
They were careful—calculating. Their blows landed where they wouldn’t leave marks visible to others, their fists and boots aimed at my ribs, my stomach, my back. They gagged me to stifle my cries, ensuring no sound of their cruelty reached beyond the cell. They avoided my arms and legs, the places my shift did not cover, as if preserving the illusion that I was untouched.
The first few beatings left me certain that one of my ribs had been cracked. The sharp, searing pain with every breath was a constant reminder of their methodical brutality. I learned quickly, though: the more I cried out, the harder they hit. My screams seemed to feed their depravity, spurring them to greater cruelty as they took their turns with me.
There was no sun in my nightmare, no light to mark the passing of time. Day and night blurred into one endless haze of fear and pain. I slept fitfully, curling into myself in the dark, bracing for the next attack. Quiet weeping became my only release, the dull ache of my body and the sharp sting of every movement my constant companions.
I was undone—stripped of hope, of will, of everything that made me feel human.
Did they forget I was here? Or was I kept solely for their amusement? A free sport for their cruelty, their vile needs met at their whim. My existence had been reduced to a source of their twisted pleasure, to be taken whenever the urge struck them.
My world shrank into a haze, my body no longer mine. I couldn’t bear to stay inside myself. My mind wandered, seeking refuge in fractured memories–dreams of sunlight warming my skin, of running through golden fields, my mother…her death had been the catalyst for the hell I was in–a series of events that spiraled far beyond my control.
It was as though I were watching my life through a grimy pane of glass, unable to touch or change anything. The girl I once was felt like a stranger, her memories distant. This couldn’t be my fate? Surely it couldn’t end like this.
Then the thought came unbidden, sharp and bitter: Why couldn’t I just die?
I ate the bread and water they brought me quietly, without complaint. There was no need to draw their ire more than I already had. Each bite tasted like ash, but I forced it down knowing I needed the strength, even if my heart screamed otherwise.
In the long, empty stretches of time I spent in that dank, suffocating cell, the thought of giving in often whispered to me. If I just stopped…if I refused to eat…it would end. Everything would end. My nightmare would end. I would slip away, away, away…to wherever my mother was. The thought tempted me, its allure pulling at the edges of my broken and shattered will.
But something inside me wouldn’t let go. Listlessness gave way to anger–sharp, hot, and unyielding. That anger began to forge my resolve, hardening it like tempered steel. I would not give them the satisfaction of dying. If they wanted me to vanish into nothing, I would fight to exist, if only to spite them.
My hand had healed over time, though it left behind a pale, jagged scar. A constant reminder of how this nightmare began. I stared at it often, tracing the scar with my fingers, as if its ridges could tell me how I had come to this point.
Eventually, they grew bored of me. Perhaps it was my silence, my refusal to cry out or fight back. I had become limp and flaccid in their hands, a thing they could no longer break because I had already withdrawn too far for them to reach. My body no longer seemed to hold the allure it once had.
Or perhaps…I had simply been forgotten, discarded, left to rot. I couldn’t tell which was worse–their vile attentions or the suffocating weight of being utterly abandoned.
The visits became infrequent, tapering off into apathy. They only brought me food after what felt like days without it. Hunger gnawed at my insides, but I still did not complain; silence was safer than drawing attention.
I began to track the passing days by the rats that scurried across stone floors outside my cell. They seemed to appear during the hours that I assumed were night, when the patrols grew quieter and the oppressive stillness of the hallways pressed down like a shroud. Their scratching and squeaking became my only markers of time, the only reminder that the world outside my cell still moved forward.
On one of the endless days I spent awake, a disturbance broke the monotony of my block in the cell house. The usual silence was shattered by the clatter of boots and the gruff shouts of guards. It was unfamiliar, different–something new in the suffocating routine of my imprisonment.
Curiosity stirred within me, and I crawled towards the bars, pressing my face against the cold metal to catch a glimpse of the commotion. Three guards were dragging a man, his form ragged and bloodied, down the corridor towards my cell. His head was hung low, his steps faltering as though he was barely conscious.
The sight sent a shiver down my spine, and I quickly retreated to the corner of my cell, hoping to remain unnoticed…my heart pounding with the sudden fear of them remembering.
One of the guards stepped forward, a ring of keys jangling in his hand. He moved to my cell, his expression twisted in annoyance. “Why lock an empty cell, anyway?” he muttered as he fumbled with the lock, the sound of metal on metal echoing through the corridor.
“What…” he began as the door creaked open. Glancing down at a piece of parchment he held, his brow furrowed. “You’re… why are you here?”
I blinked at him, stunned by the question. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. My voice—if I still had one—was lost somewhere in the thick fog of fear and disbelief.
“Hey!” one of the other guards barked, drawing the man’s attention back. The prisoner they held had begun to struggle, jerking against their hold with renewed vigor. The key-wielding guard hesitated, glancing between me and the chaos in the corridor. “Bring him in already!” his companion growled impatiently.
“No matter. Come here,” the guard snapped, stepping forward and grabbing my arm. Pain shot through me, and I yelped as his rough grip wrenched me out of the cell. My legs, unused to such sudden movement after so long confined, buckled beneath me. I stumbled forward and fell, my knees striking the cold, unforgiving stone with a sharp crack.
I barely had time to catch my breath before I saw them throw the ragged man into the cell. He hit the ground hard, but he was on his feet in an instant, shouting profanities and pounding against the bars. The guards turned their attention to him, their taunts and laughter echoing through the corridor.
They had forgotten me.
Before I realized what I was doing, I was moving. My body, instinctively acting on the fragile hope of escape, began to crawl backward, dragging myself toward a shadowed side hall. My heart thundered in my chest, the fear of being caught urging me onward.
The side hall had no cells, just long, darkened walls that felt both like a salvation and a trap. My hands gripped at the rough stones, their uneven edges giving me leverage as I forced my trembling muscles to work. I managed to pull myself to my feet, every movement screaming with exhaustion and pain.
I started to walk, each step shaky and uncertain, but the noise of the guards faded behind me. The corridor twisted and turned, and my vision blurred with effort and panic. Finally, a doorway appeared to my right, its shadowed frame offering a chance at refuge.
Desperation overtook my fear. I stumbled toward it, my breathing ragged, and slipped inside. The room was small and cold, but it was a hiding place. For now, it was enough.
It was a storeroom, I discovered after catching my breath.I moved carefully around the small space, using the floor-to-ceiling shelving for support as my legs threatened to give out beneath me. The air was cool and carried the faint scent of wood and dried herbs. My eyes darted around the dim room, searching for anything of use.
My heart leapt into my throat when my gaze landed on a bundle wrapped in wax paper, sitting unassumingly on one of the shelves. Greed overtook caution as I reached for it with trembling hands, silently praying to the gods who had long since abandoned me.
With desperate fingers, I tore open the bundle. The scent hit me first—strong, briny, unmistakably fish. Dried, salted fish. My stomach growled loudly, and I clutched the bundle greedily, stuffing the strips of meat into my mouth. The salt burned my cracked lips, but I didn’t care. My teeth worked at the tough meat, my chewing slowing as the initial frenzy ebbed.
I sank to the floor, the wax paper still clutched in one hand as I savored the rare taste of food that wasn’t dirty water or stale bread. For the first time in what felt like forever, my stomach wasn’t an empty, gnawing void.
A contented sigh escaped me, quiet and almost disbelieving, a fleeting moment of peace.
My throat suddenly constricted, dry and aching, and I realized how parched I was. The saltiness of the fish had only worsened the desperate thirst clawing at me. I dropped the bundle of dried fish and pulled myself up, clinging to the shelves as I scanned the room for anything that might hold liquid. My heart leapt when I spotted a partially drunk wineskin nestled in the corner of one of the shelves.
Almost crying with relief, I grabbed the bag, yanking out the cork with trembling fingers. Tilting the skin to my lips, I let the liquid flow down the back of my throat in deep, greedy gulps. The wine was warm, its taste sharp and heady, but I didn’t care. It filled the hollow ache in my stomach, the warmth spreading through me, leaving me feeling woozy but oddly comforted.
I sank back to the ground, placing the wineskin on my right and the bundle of fish on my left. The sensation of something in my stomach, something other than water and stale bread, was almost overwhelming. I tore into a few more pieces of the fish, chewing slowly this time, letting the tough meat ease gnawing hunger.
But then, a strange unease crept over me. The warmth of the wine turned sour, curling uncomfortably in my gut. A sharp cramping pain shot through my middle, doubling me over. Panic surged as I crawled toward the corner of the room, my body heaving violently.
I retched until there was nothing left, my stomach clenching cruelly even after it had emptied itself. Weak and trembling, I collapsed onto the floor, gasping for breath. Tears streamed down my face, sobs rattling my exhausted body as I struggled to push myself into a seated position.
The food that had seemed so holy, so life-giving, now felt like a curse. The wineskin, once a gift, lay discarded far from me. My stomach churned angrily, a reminder of my fragile state, but slowly, painfully, it began to settle. I sat quietly in the dim light, my arms wrapped around my knees, waiting for the storm inside me to pass.
After some time, the shaking subsided enough for me to attempt getting my legs under me. Every movement felt strained, my body weaker than it had ever been—even weaker than during the endless days I’d spent in the cell. I glanced up at the shelves, desperate to spot something within reach that would spare me the effort of standing. But from where I sat, there was nothing I could see, just shadows and vague outlines.
Slowly, and with no small amount of pain, I pulled my legs beneath me and began to rise. The first attempt failed, my trembling muscles refusing to cooperate. The second left me gasping, my arms gripping the shelving tightly to keep from collapsing. On the third try, I managed to stand, leaning heavily on the shelves like a crutch.
I moved slowly around the room, my eyes scanning the contents of the shelves more clearly now. The storeroom was sparsely stocked, its dusty corners revealing little of value. A few pieces of metal utensils lay scattered on one shelf, their dull surfaces catching faint glimmers of light.
It was one of those glimmers that drew my eye—and then froze me in place.
A fragmented reflection stared back at me, warped by the curve of a dented spoon. My breath hitched as I whimpered softly, unable to stop myself from reaching out. I snatched the spoon with shaking hands, holding it up to my face.
The sight was both unfamiliar and devastating. My dark hair hung in matted, dirty strands around my face, the once-lustrous waves reduced to a tangled mess. My cheeks, hollowed and sunken, made my cheekbones jut out sharply, casting harsh shadows that aged me beyond my years. My eyes, once bright and curious, now stared back dull and haunted.
I hardly recognized myself.
My grip on the spoon faltered as my hands began to tremble again, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the reflection. This was what they had done to me.
I never considered myself a pretty girl. The nasty woman who owned the inn made sure I knew it. She would sneer at me, her sharp voice cutting through my thoughts: “Yer lucky, you know. No man will want you, plain as you are. Yer hair’s the color of dirt, yer face is nothin’ special.” She never missed an opportunity to remind me that I didn’t have the looks or the body to win a good man’s hand. “I’m yer only hope,” she would hiss, “unless you want to end up on the streets—or worse, in some whorehouse, where men’ll use you up and you’ll never see a single coin of gold for it.”
Her words stuck to me like burrs, lodged deep in my skin. I’d known even then that I wasn’t pretty like the girls I’d sometimes see in the streets—those girls in clean, well-fitted dresses, their heads held high as if they belonged in a world far removed from mine. No, I wasn’t one of them, but what I saw in the spoon’s warped reflection made my chest tighten with grief.
The image staring back at me didn’t even look human. My face was smeared with dirt, streaks of grime marking the hollowed planes of my cheeks. Dark specks stood out starkly against my pallid skin—blood, dried and flaking. Mine, or… his.
The thought made my stomach lurch. My hand shook as I tried vainly to wipe at my face, but the effort only made it worse. The filth smeared further, the reality of it too much to bear.
With a sharp breath, I threw the spoon down onto the shelf, the clang echoing through the quiet room. I turned away, forcing myself to move on. I couldn’t think about that—not now. If I stopped, if I let those thoughts consume me, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to move again.
I kept searching, desperate to find something –anything– that I could use to clean myself. In the corner of the room, a crate caught my eye. Inside, to my surprise and joy, were scraps of cloth and, more importantly, clothes.
I pulled out a pair of pants, a shirt, and a cloth cap, my hands trembling with urgency as I glanced around to make sure I was still alone. They were slightly too big, hanging awkwardly on my emaciated frame, but they were clean. That was enough. I rifled through the crate again, pulling out more clothes and twisting one of the discarded shirts into a makeshift belt to hold the pants in place. I pulled the hat over my head, stuffing my matted, filthy hair into it. At least it would be out of the way. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now.
Exhaling shakily, I sank back to the floor. Grabbing a few more pieces of cloth from the crate, I tore them into strips and doused them liberally with the wine from the skin. The sharp scent stung my nose, but I didn’t care. I began wiping at my face and hands with frantic determination, scrubbing at the layers of grime and smears of blood.
When I finally dared to look at myself again, using the spoon from earlier, I saw a face that was slightly cleaner, though still gaunt and hollow. The dark shadows under my eyes remained, and no amount of scrubbing could erase the evidence of what I had endured.
“It will h-have t-to d-do,” I stuttered under my breath, tossing the spoon aside as if turning away from the reflection could keep the memories at bay. I didn’t allow myself to look any longer. What hope was there for me if I survived? I shook my head, silencing the thought. There was no time for despair now—not yet.
I found myself sitting back on the floor, weariness overpowering the fear of being caught. My body felt impossibly heavy, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me like a leaden blanket. Slowly, I lifted the wineskin back to my lips, drinking in measured sips. The liquid soothed my parched throat, its warmth spreading through my limbs and tingling at the tips of my fingers. The relentless ache in my body dulled, and the trembling that had wracked me for hours stilled entirely.
I tipped the skin upward, letting the last few drops of wine drip onto my tongue before setting the empty bag beside me. My eyelids grew heavy, drooping despite my best efforts to keep them open. My head began to nod, my body surrendering to the temptation of rest.
But just as I was slipping into a haze of sleep, a sharp bite on my ankle yanked me violently back to reality.
I jerked awake, my heart pounding as I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a cry. Rats. Several of them had swarmed the bundle of dried fish I had left on the floor, their small, glinting eyes and scrabbling claws illuminated faintly by the dim light. They tore greedily at the food, their sharp teeth ripping through the wax paper and the meat with an audible fervor.
I tried to leap to my feet, but my legs failed me. I collapsed to the floor with a muffled gasp, scrambling backward on my hands and knees as fast as I could. My breath came in shallow, panicked bursts as I hauled myself away from the frenzy of fur and teeth, the sound of their gnawing sending a shiver up my spine.
Finally, with a burst of effort, I managed to get back to my feet. I staggered toward the doorway, my heart hammering in my chest as I pushed myself into the corridor beyond. The cool air of the hallway hit my face, but I didn’t stop to savor it. I needed to move, to put as much distance between myself and the storeroom as possible.
Once I was out in the hallway, I leaned heavily against the wall, my legs trembling beneath me as they struggled to remember their old purpose. I paced carefully back and forth in front of the doorway, each step slow and deliberate. My hand trailed along the rough stone for balance, the cool surface grounding me as I tried to gather my thoughts.
Fear coiled tightly in my chest, twisting its way through my mind. I didn’t know where I was or how far I’d wandered from the guards and their cells. The storeroom had been a stroke of luck, a brief sanctuary found in the chaos, but now I was adrift again.
What was I going to do?
The question echoed relentlessly, every possible answer swallowed by the same, unrelenting truth: I didn’t know. The walls seemed to close in around me, the dim corridor stretching endlessly in both directions, offering no clear path forward. My breath hitched as panic threatened to take hold, and I clutched at the wall to steady myself.
Think, I told myself. You have to keep moving.
But where? And to what end?
The sound of boots against stone echoed down the corridor, sharp and deliberate. Fear surged through me, spurring my decision. I fled in the opposite direction, keeping to the right side of the hall, my hand brushing the wall as I moved. I prayed silently that any opening would lead to another hallway—one that might lead me closer to freedom.
Eventually, a door appeared on my left. I hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open, revealing a narrow flight of stairs spiraling upward. My breath caught in my throat, exhaustion pulled at every step.
For a fleeting moment, my mind drifted to memories of sneaking around my parents’ home as a child, pinching biscuits and scraps of bread from the kitchen when no one was looking. It was rare that my mother caught me in the act; it was always after, when she noticed the food was missing. This wasn’t my mother’s house. There was no warmth here, no safety. I had to keep moving. I shook my head sharply, forcing the memories away. I couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now. I needed to stay focused.
Every sound—each creak of the wood, the distant murmur of voices, the muffled thud of boots—sent my heart racing. The pounding of my heart was sure to give me away.
Anytime I heard voices, I flattened myself against the walls, pressing into the shadows as much as I could. I hid in doorways, ducked behind crates, and tried to look as uninteresting as possible. When there was no place to hide, and I was forced to pass a guard, I quickened my steps, my head low, attempting to look as though I had a purpose—like I belonged.
But I was hopelessly lost.
I had climbed two flights of stairs already, but every hallway I entered felt the same. Endless corridors with no sign of an exit. It was as if my nightmare refused to let me go, trapping me in a maze with no way out. The panic built steadily in my chest, threatening to claw its way to the surface.
As I rushed past another guard, my heart pounding in my ears, I caught his glance out of the corner of my eye. He was watching me, his gaze sharp and questioning. I didn’t dare look back. Instead, I hurried my pace, keeping my face down and hoping he would lose interest.
“You, boy!” the guard’s shout rang out behind me.
I froze, mid-step, my body stiffening as dread washed over me.
His heavy footfalls echoed against the stone floor, growing louder until I felt the weight of his hand clamp down on my shoulder. I caught my breath, and suppressed a shout of alarm. I tried to remain still.
“Boy, where are you headed?” His gravelly voice rumbled low, the sound reverberating through me. It shook me to my core, every syllable dripping with authority.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “The… the e-exit, ser,” I stammered, my voice trembling despite my best effort to steady it.
His grip tightened briefly, and I clenched my fists at my sides to keep from trembling. The silence that followed stretched unbearably, my heart pounding in my chest as I awaited his reply.
The guard snorted, a sound of irritation rather than suspicion. Without warning, he spun me around by the shoulder, the sudden motion almost sending me sprawling to the floor. His rough hand pointed back the way I had come.
“You’re going the wrong way,” he barked. “Head up this hallway, turn left, then down another flight of stairs, and take a right. Offices and the exit are there.” His voice carried the dismissive authority of someone who didn’t want to be bothered. “Next time you’re delivering something, don’t forget the way you came in.”
Before I could even nod, he gave me a shove forward. The force sent me stumbling, and in my weakened state, I barely managed to stay on my feet.
I didn’t look back. My legs, though trembling with exhaustion, seemed to act of their own accord, carrying me forward. I broke into a run, his directions repeating in my head like a chant: Up this hallway. Left. Stairs. Right. Offices. Exit.
My heart pounded in rhythm with my footsteps as I clung to the thin thread of hope he had unknowingly handed me.
It wasn’t until I reached the ground floor that I slowed, my frantic pace easing into a weary shuffle. The light ahead drew me forward, bright and beckoning, a promise of freedom and life. My feet carried me instinctively, as though they had their own destination in mind.
The light.
It felt like an eternity since I’d seen it—since I’d felt the sun’s warmth on my skin. I no longer cared where I went; all that mattered was moving toward that glow. Each step felt heavier than the last, the dizziness creeping in until my vision blurred at the edges. I stumbled and caught myself against a stone pillar, leaning heavily as I gasped for breath.
I was so close. So close to air, to life, to something that didn’t reek of stone and fear. But my body was failing me. My legs shook uncontrollably, and my eyes grew heavy, the weight of exhaustion pulling me down. I rubbed at them, willing myself to stay awake, to keep going.
I need to rest. I need to be safe.
The thought clawed at my mind, twisting itself into despair. I wanted away from this nightmare. I wanted to live.
That thought, that fragile hope, unraveled me. It sent me spiraling into the abyss of my own mind.
Why couldn’t I just give up?
The question hit like a blow. Why couldn’t I just lay down, let sleep take me, and never wake again? The warmth I sought, the air I craved—it all felt so far away, as though it wasn’t meant for me.
But I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Something kept pulling me, pushing me to live.
Instantly, I realized I was not alone. The courtyard where I had stopped was alive with movement, a throng of people milling about in the open space. Their chatter and the shuffle of feet filled the air, a sharp contrast to the eerie silence of the prison halls.
A jolt of panic surged through me, spurring me into motion. I pushed off from the pillar and skirted the edge of the crowd, my eyes darting nervously from face to face. My heart raced, every fiber of my being urging me to avoid notice.
But as I moved, a flicker of opportunity caught my eye. A few large men, their fat purses hanging loosely from their belts, strode through the crowd with the careless confidence of those who’d never known hunger. My gaze locked on their purses.
Without slowing, I slipped close to them, my small frame weaving through the bustling throng unnoticed. My gait, already irregular from exhaustion, blended seamlessly into the chaos of the crowd. No one paid attention to someone my size bumping into them, and with unpracticed fingers, I lifted a few purses as I passed, and still was not noticed.
The weight of the coins in my hands was a strange, grounding comfort, a lifeline in the midst of the noise and confusion. I clutched them tightly, my steps quickening as I melted back into the edges of the crowd, my heart pounding with a mixture of fear and triumph.
A small voice in the back of my mind whispered to me: I do not steal. Cookies and biscuits stolen from my mother’s kitchen were not the same as gold, hard-earned by another.
But then another voice whispered, harsher and cruel: I do not kill, either.
My throat tightened, and my breath hitched painfully. All I could see was blood—splattered on my hands, dripping onto the stone floor, pooling where it didn’t belong. The memory made my stomach lurch, and I stumbled forward, spurred on by a fear that burned like fire in my chest.
The fear of being caught. For lifting the purse. For the murder I could never take back. That would haunt me.
I bolted out of the keep, bursting onto the streets. The light, the open space, the noise—it should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. The crowded street pressed in on me, every face a new threat, every passing glance filled with imagined recognition.
I looked into their faces, but I didn’t see strangers. I saw hate. Anger. The guards who had beaten me, the ones who had taken my body and laughed. The hag who had sold me like a trinket to be bartered with. Their faces blurred and twisted into one monstrous mass, and I cupped a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back the cry that rose in my throat.
I ran. My feet hit the cobblestones in a frantic rhythm, taking me anywhere, everywhere. It didn’t matter where—just away.
I was free.
But I wasn’t.
Every face was a reminder. Every hand another that would strike me, hurt me, take something from me. Tears stung my eyes, blurring my vision until the streets became an indistinct haze of shapes and shadows. My chest heaved as I gasped for air, panic closing in like iron bands around my ribs.
Suddenly, I collided with someone.
I screamed as their hand reached out to steady me, my voice raw and shrill, and I shoved them away with a strength I didn’t know I had. Without stopping to see who it was or where I was, I kept running, the world a blur of terror and noise. The panic overrides everything else.
Finally, the crowds thinned, the noise of the bustling street fading into the background. Relief came in the form of an empty alley, its shadows stretching like a quiet refuge. I stumbled toward it, my legs giving out beneath me as I collapsed into a pile of discarded trash.
The sharp, acrid smell of rot and decay filled my nostrils, but I couldn’t summon the strength to care. My body screamed for rest, every muscle trembling with exhaustion. My eyes, traitorous and heavy, closed of their own accord, pulling me toward the edge of unconsciousness.
I knew I needed to move, to find someplace truly safe, but my limbs refused to obey. The ground beneath me was hard and cold, the faint stench of refuse clinging to the air. I was vulnerable here—exposed—but I couldn’t summon the strength to rise.
For a moment, the world blurred into a haze of half-formed thoughts and aching memories. I wanted to keep going, to escape this nightmare fully, but my body had reached its limit. My breath came shallow and ragged as I lay still, fighting to stay awake, knowing I couldn’t afford to fall asleep.
And yet, the darkness crept in at the edges of my mind, a slow, inescapable tide…

Snatches of my previous life sometimes came to me, usually when I lay on my sleeping mat. The visions drifted in unbidden, like fragments of a dream I couldn’t piece together. Me as a little girl on our family’s farm and my father and mother, happy. The wind through the grasses. The golden fields, beneath the vast endless sky. The smell of freshly turned earth, and for a fleeting moment, I could feel happy. It all seemed like a dream. It was a dream.
Our farm was less than a day’s walk from Pelargir. My father took the goods that our small farm produced to sell to the merchants, who in turn, sold it at their booths. I remember when my nightmare began. When the happy people that were my parents turned sour. As I got older, my father would remind me that I was not a son. I would not carry on his family name, and I would not receive the farm. He reminded me he never wanted a girl. 
How I wished that I could be different; how my life could be different. I tried to help my father, but my mother also needed my help. Soon, she couldn’t hide it anymore, she was very sick. My father blamed me. That if I were a boy, my mother would not be sick, she wouldn’t be dying. It was my fault for being born. I couldn’t bring myself to go out to the village near our homestead. I was afraid that they wouldn’t want me either. I often thought of running away, finding a new family, a new home, but…I never did. I could never find the courage to take the few things I owned and get away.
The night before my mother’s death, she wept weakly, lamenting her lack of more children. I sat by her side, dabbing her face with a washcloth. I cried, I told her that I loved her, that I didn’t want her to die. I couldn’t tell if she was listening to me or not, she didn’t respond. She just kept weeping, tears sliding down her fever reddened cheeks. She died without ever telling me that she cared for me…or loved me.
After my father buried my mother, I tried to be useful. I tried to be the boy he wanted, but it wasn’t good enough. It was only a few weeks later that he handed me a few things in my little blanket and told me that a woman would be meeting us at the local common house and that she would be taking me away.
I cried, harder than I had since my mother had died, and begged him to let me stay; I told him that I would always be good. He turned away from me and told me that we had to leave at that moment. I didn’t even have time to make sure that he packed everything I owned; I didn’t even get to take the little doll from my bed that I found while out exploring one day. I left behind the only thing that I felt loved me in this life.
It didn’t take us long to get there. By the time we got to the common house, both my knees were scraped and bruised from how often I fell due to my father’s quick pace. He would often turn around and drag me to my feet and berate me for being slow, or making noise, or even crying. I sniffled instead, limping along behind him, going to my doom.
The woman was older. Her large portly size was dressed in old rags and when she smiled, she scared me. I hid behind my father, but he shoved me forward at her, causing me to nearly fall again, “Here she is. I hope she is more useful to you.”
Her clawed hand reached for me and gripped my small arm with an inhuman strength. “Aye, she’ll be g’nough help.” Her mouth lacked several teeth, and what remained was yellow and cracked. Her rancid breath hitting me full in the face, causing me to reel back.
I cried and reached out for my father, calling to him, but he turned and walked away. Leaving me in the clutches of her vile stench. The woman gave me a shake so violently that I fell back down to my knees in dirt, scraping up my knees more. “Get up, girl!” She shook me again, but this time dragging my arm upwards. I cried out, but she released me when I found my footing.
We walked onward towards the city. I stopped crying after the second time she turned and slapped me. After that, I made no more noise. It was late in the evening when we made it back to the city. I gaped in wonder at the walls and the buildings. There were more people here than I had ever seen in my life. But we didn’t slow down enough for me to take in the sights of the city. I kept my eyes low, avoiding her glare, but I couldn’t help glancing at the towering buildings we passed, their grandeur turning into peeling walls and cracked stone the deeper we went. I got hopelessly lost with how many streets we turned down. The more we walked, the buildings became shabbier and the streets less clean. Every corner seemed to cast longer shadows, hiding faces that peered out with hollow eyes. My scraped knees stung, and my stomach twisted, the suffocating feeling of the walls closing in making me feel dizzy.
We passed doorways with wood frames sagging under the weight of age, windows barely held onto broken shutters. Some windows, shadows danced against shutters from the candle light within, the demonic shapes seemingly dancing out of spite with my situation. The clamor of the busy market faded behind us, replaced by the murmurs of low voices and occasionally a slam of a door, or the cry of a child.
It seemed as if we walked forever, my captor’s intentions to keep me confused with the direction. At last, we stopped in front of a building that looked like it could barely stand. The door was crooked, splintered at the edges, and the windows were nothing more than holes stuffed with old cloth. The woman shoved me inside without a word, and I stumbled into the dim room, catching myself on a rough wooden table. The scent of mildew and sour ale filled my nose.
“Sit,” she barked, pushing me into a rickety chair. My legs felt weak as I obeyed, sinking down without protest. For the first time, I dared to look up at her face—puffy, blotched, with eyes as sharp as glass. There was no kindness there, only a cold scrutiny that made me shiver. She turned away, locking the door with a loud click that echoed through the silence.
I glanced around the room, taking in the cracked walls and sagging ceiling. My heart pounded in my chest, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on me. Whatever was to come, I knew I was at her mercy.
The woman crossed the room with deliberate steps, reaching for a chipped basin on a shelf. She dipped a rag into murky water and wrung it out, droplets splattering onto the floor. I flinched as she turned back to me, eyes narrowed. Without warning, she pressed the damp cloth to my face, scrubbing away the dirt with harsh strokes. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, the rough fabric scratching my already raw skin.
“You’re a mess,” she muttered, tossing the rag aside. Her eyes scanned me, taking in the torn hem of my dress and the blood dried on my knees. She sighed, a sound not of sympathy but of frustration. “Can’t ‘ave you lookin’ like a street rat,” she added, more to herself than to me. “You’re worth more than that.”
My breath caught in my throat. Worth more? The words churned in my mind, mixing with confusion and a growing sense of dread. I forced myself to sit still, though my fingers twitched with the urge to reach for the door behind her. My eyes darted to the boarded window, noting how the light slipped through the cracks, casting thin lines of gold across the floor. It was the only warmth in the room.
The woman moved again, rummaging through a trunk in the corner. The sound of rustling fabric and the clinking of metal filled the air. She pulled out a bundle and turned to face me. “Change, now,” she ordered, throwing the clothes into my lap. I stared at them—an old tunic, frayed at the edges, and a belt with a worn brass buckle. They smelled faintly of dust and something bitter, like herbs left too long in the sun.
I hesitated, fingers tracing the rough weave of the tunic. She watched me, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in silent challenge. The silence stretched between us, heavy and sharp.
“I’s won’t tells ya ‘gain,” she snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. I swallowed hard and nodded, turning away as I fumbled to change, the cold air biting at my skin. Behind me, I could hear her pacing, each step tapping out a rhythm that only deepened my anxiety.
When I finally turned back to face her, the old dress clutched in my trembling hands, she gave a curt nod. “Good,” she said, her tone harsh but no less commanding. “Now we begin.”
And this is where the work never ended. I scrubbed floors, I carried, I served…every day the same. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and then the years went by. When the rare occasion came when I was not working, I was kept out of sight.
Whenever I was fed, she would complain about the cost of feeding me, but then mutter under her breath that I would be worth something someday, and I could not fathom what she could have meant. My inexperienced brain could not process how I was worthless to her now. She paid me nothing, and she did less work because I was doing it all.
Occasionally, someone kind would notice me—someone who might sneak me an extra piece of bread or offer a few kind words. But what I cherished most were the scraps of paper left behind, or better yet, a book. I would slip them into my apron pocket and devour their contents by the dim light of night or in the soft glow of dawn, before the inn stirred to life. From the fireplace, I stole bits of charcoal, using them to practice writing on any surface I could scrub clean, always careful to erase the evidence of my learning. The rare times the hag caught me as a child, she’d lash my back with a switch. I quickly learned to avoid getting caught; the pain of working through fresh wounds was not something I wished to endure again.
Even in those early days, I could not have known what was to come, I didn’t know how this place was making me so sick. I couldn’t see a way out. The years that I worked in this place, I was splintering, festering…being infected, the poison seeping into my system. The more vile of patrons, I was able to avoid. I wasn’t a stupid girl. I knew what men got to with women. I knew what they were about. I could hear them talking about me…about my body. But I managed to keep away. I always managed to stay one step ahead.
One evening, we had a special guest at our bar. A noble, by the way he looked and dressed. I stared at him openly; the man seemed to be oozing richness. It was not until I was smacked on the back of the head with a serving spoon, that my attention was brought back to me and I turned. I resisted glaring at the hag as she waved the spoon near my face.
“Hike up yer skirts, gurl, and bring him some food!” the hag whispered as she gave the strings on my bodice a tug. Fuming, I turned and grabbed a trencher full of stale bread, greasy stew, and stale ale, making my way through the crowded room, the air thick with the stench of spilled ale and unwashed bodies. Why someone like him would come in here was beyond me, but I did my job, whether it mattered to me or not. I had nowhere else to go. I had a moment to look him over as I walked to where he waited. He didn’t belong here, that much was obvious. His coat was too fine, boots too polished and clean, and the fabric of his leggings unmarred.
“A trencher for you, ser?” I spoke slowly so as to not sound completely like the backwater scum that frequented here. I wondered to myself why he had come to this place. I waited patiently for a response.
The man slowly turned and looked me over, to my chagrin, and took the trencher without a word, being careful to avoid touching me. He removed the bowl of stew aside, his nose wrinkling slightly, and focused instead on the sale bread and ale. Once the bowl was far enough away, he reached into his pouch and pulled out three gold coins. The clink of the coins in his hand caught the room’s attention, and an audible gasp could be heard from the hag behind the counter, as he placed them deliberately, one by one, into my palm. Then with a faint air of distaste, he produced a handkerchief and wiped his hands. Heat rose to my cheeks, and I bit back a smart retort. I was not filthy. Why was he here then? What was his reasoning for coming into this hovel of a tavern, if he were thinking himself too fine.
I balled my hand that held the gold into a fist and turned to walk back to where the hag was eagerly waiting. Anger bubbled in my chest, hot and unrelenting. The sting of humiliation and the bitter unfairness of it all made my face burn and my eyes sting. I didn’t get a choice for this life, this prison, and yet, I was expected to endure it. Accept the scraps I was thrown and be grateful I had a roof over my head. The hag crooned over the three gold pieces as I placed them into her hands. I tried to not let my resentment show on my face as she pocketed them but something inside me shifted. I hated, hated, all of them, this life, and most of all the hopelessness that came with it.
I was still seething as I moved around the bar, cleaning tables and wiping them down with a rag that was as filthy as the rest of this place. My normal, and careful, perception was clouded. That anger removed my focus. I should have paid attention to what was around me. I should have… well; I should have done a lot of things. It was at this point where my life took a wrenching turn away from the life I wanted, the life that I was thrust into, and that mistake would cost me dearly.
I should have felt the leering look I was getting. It was not until I felt a hand slither up my skirts, that I brought my attention to focus and attempted to turn to face the one that began to grab at me. But his hand was a distraction because his arm was already snaked around my waist. I gave a shout of alarm. I struggled, but it was in vain, for he was stronger and his arm that was around my waist then moved and captured both of my arms. He removed his hand from under my skirts and grabbed my chin and pulled my face towards his. The smell of tobacco and alcohol was enough to almost make me retch. I continued to struggle and kick, but he had maneuvered me in such a way that I was sitting upon his lap. His two legs trapped the two of mine and he continued to press his face into mine. I whipped my head around and screamed when I was able to get my mouth free.
Over my shouts, I heard the hag say, “Oiy, it’ll be two gold pieces for that one, ser.” and the man grunted in agreement as he stood, carrying me towards the back room.
This was at this point where my rage and hate boiled over. The noble turned and met my eyes and I begged him…begged him to save me, to help me, to stand up and defend me… but he turned away, annoyed with the noise.
Sobbing, my resistance faltered slightly, and I was pulled into the filthy backroom that was the hag’s living quarters. It was not until he started groping at me again that I took up my fight and attempted to kick and grab onto anything. How could a man be this impossibly strong? He eventually made it to the back room. I kicked and struggled more; I could feel my time was short. I was going to end up losing this fight. Everything was moving too quickly. His hand clawed at my bodice, and the fabric ripped. He groped at my bare chest and I screamed, attempting to bite, snap at his hand. His attention changed and I could feel him pulling at my skirts, trying to figure out how to untangle the fabric in his drunken state, his clumsy hands only making him more frustrated. I attempted to lash out again, screaming in frustration myself, trying to get away. I was able to get an arm free of his other hand and I took a wild swing at his face, anything to deter him from his end goal. I hopelessly missed and my hand came in contact with the polished mirror that the hag kept by the mattress. It shattered, I could tell from the sound and from the searing pain coming from my hand. He captured my hand again, but I continued to struggle, although I was getting weaker, and he was not losing any strength.
What was I doing? Was I going to let this rutting pig attempt to take me? Through my sobs, I worked up a gob of spit in the back of my throat. He howled when it hit him right in the eye. With my hand, free again, I grabbed blindly behind me, trying to find something that would help me defend myself. My fingers encountered the broken pieces of glass… He began to lean over me, his battle with my skirts almost over. I could feel his hot breath on my face again, his body heavy over mine. In a final panic, my fingers kept searching, something…anything… my fingers encountered a small knife, barely sharp enough to cut anything with but I wrapped my damaged hand painfully around it, and brought it up and rammed it in the side of his neck.
Again, and again, I stabbed him. I was blinded by my pain and anger… He howled in pain this time, not in rage, and when my senses finally came to me, I watched the life leech from him as his heart drained him of his own blood, pump after pump. It felt like an eternity, him struggling over me, thrashing about, clawing at his own perforated neck. He tried to make more noise, but every breath he took, there was only a horrible gurgling sound. Eventually the fight left his body, and the dead weight of him crushing me. I screamed and screamed until I was hoarse. I no longer felt anything, the pain in my hand that gripped the dagger, my fear, my frustration… I felt nothing. Sobs racked my body and tremors shook me to my core, but I felt nothing. As suddenly as feeling left me, hot boiling rage blossomed within my chest, it consumed me. I hated this man; I hated every man in that room that let this happen; I hated the hag for trying to sell me. They all deserved death as this pig did. They all deserved to die.
As I lay in his blood, warm and viscous, the world slowly came back to me in fragments—the heavy weight of his body pinning me down, the metallic tang of blood filling the air, and the searing pain in my hand. His lifeless form still lay over me, trapping my legs. I tried to slide out from under him, but the pain in my hand was nearly unbearable. But I did not want to let go, I couldn’t lose the only piece of protection that I had, the little dagger.
I glanced around, desperate for something to anchor my gaze on, but everything was blurred, my eyes unable to focus. I could no longer tell which blood was mine and which was his, as my hand was now bleeding freely. I needed help, I needed… I did not know what I needed. I struggled more to get out from beneath him. He was impossibly heavy. With a gasp and shaking arms, I finally was able to roll his body off of mine, the sound of wet fabric and the ‘thud’ of flesh breaking the silence in the room. I struggled to stand, on hands and knees, before I was able to finally get my legs under me. Attempting to straighten my dress from where it was tangled and raised around my waist, made me choke out a laugh. My dress was in tatters, covered in blood, his and mine. My bare chest was covered in it as well. It was a mess—a horrifying, unrecognizable mess. I shakily walked towards the door, grabbing at anything that might cover my nakedness before I stepped out. But I need not wait.
The hag opened the door just as I clutched to myself a thin blanket. She stood there, her sharp eyes meeting mine for a fleeting second before dropping to the floor—to the corpse sprawled in its pool of blood. It felt like the world slowed as she opened her mouth, and screamed, a sound I had never heard before. A blood-curdling shriek that sent a fresh wave of panic over me and through me. She turned and bolted out the door.
My heart thundered in my chest as I scrambled to follow, though I had no idea what I intended to do. Stop her? Beg her to help me? My thoughts raced, jumbled, incoherent, as I stumbled barely through the doorframe into the hallway. But she was already there, rushing back towards me, a trencher held high above her head. Her face was twisted in fury, her screams nearly drowning out my own. It came swinging down, and I barely avoided the first swing, but the second swing was too fast for me to avoid, and pain exploded along the left side of my head.
The pain was blinding, and sharp. Black spots danced all around my vision and I struggled to stay upright. My knees buckled, and I staggered, dropping the blanket and reaching for the wall, trying to stay upright. The world seemed mute around me but her expression showed that she was still screaming. The final blow is what sent me sprawling.
This time, blackness consumed my vision entirely. My body hit the floor with a dull thud, and I knew no more.