A-in's heart began to race upon hearing the man's words. He cast a quick glance toward the guards, yet they remained absorbed in their idle talk, unaware of what was transpiring between the walls of their prison.
"How—how shall I escape from here? Have you ever attempted it before?" A-in's voice trembled with a rush of feverish hope. His lips quivered, his hands turned cold, and his breath came unsteady.
"No."
At that, his shoulders sank, and the fragile flame of his hope was extinguished. The thrill that had risen in him moments ago crumbled into bitter dust. He clicked his tongue in frustration.
"But…"
A-in's ears pricked, like an animal catching the faintest sound of salvation.
"When the moon climbs to her highest throne," said the man softly, "the guards will close their eyes and drift into a deep slumber. That shall be your hour of deliverance. The keys hang from their waists, take them."
A-in's eyes darted to the guards. Indeed, the ring of keys glinted faintly against the wavering torchlight.
"What should I do then? Have you no plan prepared?"
"The right question, boy, is whether you have a plan."
"I thought we were to escape! Why do you have none?" cried A-in, bewildered and indignant.
The man chuckled wearily. "I am old. I no longer crave freedom. My wife visits me whenever she can. I still behold her face, and that suffices. What need have I of escape? She might worry."
A-in scowled at the wall, disgusted that such a man could speak tenderly of love while bound in chains.
"Try your best, young one," the prisoner murmured. "For it is your only path to spare your soul from wandering the Duat. Surely you do not wish to walk beside Anubis before your time?"
"Absolutely not!" said A-in at once.
Time crept onward. A-in's eyes lingered upon the small window high above the only eye of the night within his cell. It was too narrow for his head to pass through, and it sat directly at the ceiling's heart. The old man had said that when the moon reached its zenith, its silver face would peer through that window. So A-in fought against sleep, watching, waiting.
Then a sound. A clatter of iron striking stone echoed faintly from beyond the bars. Alert, A-in turned to the guards. They had slumped against the wall, their chests rising and falling in the deep rhythm of dream.
Could it be…?
He looked once more to the window. There it was the moon, round and ethereal, reigning in its cold perfection, bathing the night with its pale fire.
A-in moved toward the bars, each step light as a whisper. He crouched beside the nearest guard, whose keys swayed gently at his hip. They hung just out of reach. Gritting his teeth, A-in stretched his arm through the bars, his fingertips brushing only air. Desperation burned through him. At last, he caught the hem of the guard's garment and drew it upward, inch by inch, to pull the keys closer.
The guard's brow furrowed in his sleep. A-in froze, breathless. When the frown faded, he reached again and seized the ring. But the metal jingled, sharp and loud in the silence.
A-in's heart thundered in his chest. He stood rigid, scarcely daring to breathe. Sweat trickled down his temple as he pulled the keys free.
At last he had them.
He sank to the floor, trembling from the effort, gasping as though he had wrestled the air itself. Then, slowly, he rose and turned toward the cell door.
One by one, he tried the keys. The first was too large. The second, too small. The third, wrong in shape. He began to gnaw at his thumbnail, his foot tapping frantically against the stone.
Then he found a key carved of wood, smooth and strange among the others. He pressed it into the lock. Then he heard a click.
The padlock yielded.
A-in's lips parted in silent joy. A weight lifted from his chest, replaced by a trembling triumph.
And then—
"Prisoner," a voice rang from somewhere, sharp and cold. "What are you doing?"