Chapter 6
A strategic retreat is not the same as a surrender.
For three weeks following my confrontation with the wolves in the dark, I did not change a single thing about my daily routine. I ate the hard crusts of bread. I slept on my side. I kept my head down whenever the heavy iron doors groaned open. I let Nova believe her icy glares were successfully keeping the "human spy" in her place, and I let Harlow believe I had simply abandoned my reckless impulse to run.
But every night, while the wolves slept, my mind was mapping the terrain.
I knew the exact rotation of the guards. I knew that the night shift always belonged to two humans—men from the outer border settlements who had sold their loyalty to whatever entity owned this dungeon. I knew that the larger one, a man named Thomas, had a habit of lingering by my cell. He would lean against the rusted iron bars, his breath smelling of sour ale, and mutter foul, quiet things into the dark. He thought it was funny that the human was the most attractive one in the bunch. He thought because I didn't have claws, I didn't have teeth.
I let him think it. A hunter always lets the prey believe it is the one doing the stalking.
The catalyst arrived on a suffocating Thursday. Through the thick concrete wall separating the cell block from the guard quarters, I caught the muffled fragments of a conversation. It was the night shift, sharing a flask of moonshine.
"...orders came down from the high court," the smaller guard grunted, his voice echoing faintly through the ventilation grate. "We have to up the dose of the silent prayer and the dampener next week. The human's blood is adjusting too fast. We can't risk her getting her voice back before the transfer."
My body went completely rigid on the canvas mattress. The dose.
Every two months, like clockwork, they would lace my water with a bitter, burning toxin that left me violently ill for days—a human immune system reacting to heavy, unnatural suppressants meant for larger beasts. The guards had always assumed I was just a fragile creature breaking under the dampness of the cells. The other girls thought I was simply succumbing to a human sickness. But I knew better. I was being poisoned to stay compliant. And if they increased the dose next week, I might not survive the winter.
I didn't have a week. I had tonight.
I waited until the second guard went down the hall to check the perimeter doors, leaving Thomas alone at the heavy wooden desk. The single torch in the corridor was casting long, erratic shadows across the stone floor.
I stood up, slid my hand beneath my mattress, and pulled out the heavy triangular piece of concrete I had pried loose months ago. I didn't use it to strike. I walked over to the corner of the cell, wedged the sharp stone beneath the rear wooden leg of my cot, and threw my entire body weight against the frame.
SNAP.
The dry pine fractured with a loud, wooden splintering sound. I quickly grabbed the broken, heavy length of the leg—nearly two feet of solid wood—and slid it silently behind the rust-stained basin of my sink.
Then, I collapsed onto the concrete floor, curling into a tight, trembling ball, and let out a series of dry, ragged heaves. I kicked my legs against the floorboards, making enough noise to draw a predator from the brush.
The heavy thud of boots approached my cell. Thomas appeared at the bars, his keys jingling at his belt, a dark, arrogant grin twisting his features as he looked down at my shivering form.
"What's the matter, pretty thing?" he sneered, his fingers hooking into the iron. "The human stomach finally giving out on you?"
I dragged myself toward the gate, my fingers clawing at the stone, my breathing shallow and desperate. I forced my eyes to look wide, watery, and entirely unthreatening. I pointed a trembling hand toward the empty water bowl, then toward my throat, mimicking a violent choke. I made him think his colleague had poisoned the water supply without telling him—a wedge of suspicion I had noted between them weeks ago.
Thomas frowned, his greed and arrogance overriding his training. He looked down the hall; the other guard was still gone. He wanted the credit for keeping the prize intact. He wanted to be the savior to the beautiful human girl.
He pulled the heavy brass ring from his belt, slid the key into the lock, and turned it. The heavy iron door swung open with a slow, agonizing creak.
"Always making trouble," Thomas muttered, stepping into the cramped concrete cell. He bent down, reaching his hand out toward my chin. "Let's see what's wrong with—"
The fragility vanished from my limbs like smoke.
Before his fingers could touch my skin, I dropped my weight, slid my arm behind the basin, and brought the wooden bat up in a brutal, blinding arc.
CRACK.
The solid pine connected with the side of his skull at full force. Thomas didn't even have time to gasp. His knees buckled instantly, his massive frame colliding with the dirty floor with a heavy thud. Before he could recover his senses, I raised the wooden bat and pounded him one more time, a vicious strike straight to his temple. He went completely limp.
I slammed my heavy boot directly over his windpipe, cutting off his oxygen, and reached down. My fingers didn't go for his keys. They went for his belt. This man always carried a heavy iron revolver—a weapon from the borderlands—strapped to his hip. I unholstered the cold steel, checking the cylinder with a practiced, silent click. Six rounds.
I stepped out of the cell, leaving Thomas bleeding on the concrete, and slid the iron bolt closed behind me.
"Thomas? What the hell is taking so long?"
The second guard turned the corner at the far end of the corridor, a lantern in one hand and his own iron pistol already drawn. The light caught my blood-streaked white dress and the heavy revolver in my hand.
He froze, his jaw dropping in absolute shock.
We were both pointing our weapons across the narrow, dimly lit corridor. The distance was twenty paces—the exact length of the clearing where I used to throw my knives into rotting logs blindfolded.
A cold, supernatural certainty settled into my chest. Call me crazy, but in that split second, looking into his trembling eyes, I knew he wouldn't pull the trigger. Our captors needed us alive. They had spent nine months keeping us intact for a reason. If he shot me, he ruined the prize.
But I had absolutely nothing to lose.
BANG.
The sound of my revolver was deafening, a flash of fire exploding in the narrow concrete hall. The bullet tore through the air, striking him dead center in the chest. The force of the impact slammed him backward against the wall, his lantern shattering on the stones as his weapon slipped from his fingers. He didn't even have the breath to call for help before he crumpled into the shadows.
Across the corridor, the cells had erupted into a frantic, violent chaos. Nova was slamming her weight against her bars, her icy blue eyes wide with a mixture of terror and absolute disbelief. Harlow was shaking, her hands flying to her mouth, while Reese stared at me as if I had just risen from the dead.
I walked slowly down the corridor, the smoking revolver held steady at my side. I picked up the ring of keys from the fallen guard's belt, the heavy brass clinking in the sudden silence.
I stopped right in front of Nova’s cell. She stood rigid behind the iron, her chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged gaps, her hands completely still. She didn't look at me like I was a fragile, empty human anymore. She looked at me like I was the dangerous thing in the dark.
I held up the heavy brass keys, letting them dangle between us in the torchlight, my expression entirely detached.
How much worth do you give to me now? I signed with my free hand, the symbols sharp and heavy.
Nova swallowed hard, her jaw tightening, but she couldn't look away from the iron barrel of the gun in the deep, hidden slit pocket of my torn white dress. I didn't wait for her apology. I slid the key into her lock, then moved down the line, unlocking Harlow, Reese, and Anika.
