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Blackness.
2
ELENA
Sharp pain resonates through my skull.
Where am I? Was I dreaming?
The air is no longer hot and stagnant. It’s salty, and for the first time in weeks, I’m able to take a deep breath.
Everything aches, but my wrists are what troubles me most. The shackles bite into angry red cuts. If I’m not taken to a cleric, I’ll get an infection.
I blink a dozen times, trying to force my eyes to adapt to the dim light that’s pouring in. I’m sitting on the wall of the hull. The world is open, which makes no sense.
I feel pressure on my back and look over to see Asha curled against me. She’s crying, and from the sound of it, she’s not the only one. Sorrow fills the cabin, a song of morose longing for what these women once had.
I had so little, and nothing to cry for except the very real fear of a long, agonizing death.
“Is your head okay?” A raspy voice rises above the others.
I turn to see Meg, daughter to Lord Belwits, squinting at me.
There’s pain, so much pain. I bring my hand to my skull and feel sticky, wet heat.
I’m going to die.
Alone. With dozens of women I barely know. Chained. In utter filth.
No one to remember me. No one to care.
But for as much as my head hurts, I’m thinking pretty clearly. Death hasn’t come for me yet.
Asha groans at my jerky moments. Until recently, we’d had no real interactions. She was friends with Lord Voldren’s daughter, Arwin, so I’d see her at the keep now and again, but being noble-blooded meant she and I never mingled.
Having spent so much time next to her, I can say that for as noble and privileged as she was, she’s also kind, which is rare among her class. When we were first captured, and there was still life among us, some of the others didn’t like me taking part in conversations. They’d berate me if I talked over them, or even asked a simple question.
Asha never did this, but she wasn’t the only one. Meg put a few in their place when they snapped at me, saying we couldn’t afford to act petty when we’re all equally chained.
But for as kind as she is, Asha is soft, and I fear she won’t last much longer.
I look around, taking in the situation. There are at least seven dead girls with several more likely to succumb soon if we sit around and do nothing, and one dead jailer.
There’s no way out of your chains. You’ll die in a pile of your own filth.
Now’s not the time to be a pessimist, though I’ve had so much practice.
“Hey,” I call down the line, surprised by how weak my voice sounds.
A few heads turn in my direction.
“Check the water guy. See if there are any keys on him,” I say a little louder.
For a long moment, all they do is stare at me in a daze. Finally, a rail-thin woman with bright red hair says, “Our hands are bound.”
“Then use your damn feet!” I scoff, angry with how useless they are.
Meg snorts. I look over to see that she’s smiling, and it makes me like her. She gets it.
