The dungeon was a place of silence, but not peace. Every sound—every faint shuffle of feet, every distant drip of water—echoed endlessly, amplifying the weight of Mia's isolation. She sat on the cold stone floor, her back pressed against the damp wall, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the metallic tang of rust and the faint, bitter scent of despair.
She could feel the others watching her. The prisoners in the neighboring cells remained silent, their hollow eyes peering through the iron bars. They were shadows of people, stripped of hope and vitality. Mia forced herself not to look at them for too long, afraid of what she might see reflected in their gazes: her own fate.
Her wrists ached from the rough treatment she had endured, the skin raw where the rogues' hands had gripped her. She flexed her fingers, trying to keep the blood flowing, and winced at the sharp sting. Yet, despite the pain and the fear gnawing at her insides, she refused to let herself sink into despair.
She had to think.
Her breath slowed as she forced herself to focus. The rogues had brought her here for a reason. She wasn't just another prisoner; she was valuable to them somehow. _They think I'm useful_, she thought, Hazel's words resurfacing in her mind. _The sacrifice will open new doors of magic._
But what magic? What did Hazel want from her? And why did the rogues think she could be "useful"?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Mia stiffened, her heart pounding as the noise grew louder. She pressed herself against the wall, her muscles tensing instinctively. A shadow appeared at the far end of the hallway, followed by the faint flicker of torchlight.
It was one of the rogues—a different one from before. He was younger, with shaggy dark hair and a scar running diagonally across his jaw. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, sharp and calculating. He carried a tray of food, the smell of stale bread and watery soup wafting through the air.
He stopped in front of Mia's cell, crouching slightly to meet her gaze through the bars.
"Eat," he said gruffly, sliding the tray through a small slot at the bottom of the door.
Mia didn't respond, her eyes locked on his face. She wasn't sure what she was looking for—weakness, perhaps, or hesitation. Anything she could use.
The rogue raised an eyebrow, his scar twitching as he smirked. "Don't bother trying to figure me out, little lamb. You're not the first to try."
Mia's jaw tightened. She wanted to snap back, to say something that would wipe the smug expression off his face, but she held her tongue. Instead, she reached for the tray, her movements slow and deliberate.
As she picked up the bread, her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the tray. Her eyes flicked down, and a spark of hope ignited in her chest. The tray was dented and rusted, but the edges were sharp.
The rogue watched her closely, his smirk fading slightly. "Don't get any ideas," he warned, his voice low. "This dungeon isn't as empty as it seems."
Mia didn't reply, keeping her expression neutral as she tore a small piece of bread and brought it to her lips. The rogue lingered for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on her face before he stood and walked away.
As soon as his footsteps faded, Mia set the tray aside and examined it more closely. The edges weren't sharp enough to cut through the iron bars, but they could be useful for something smaller—like a lock.
Her mind raced as she formulated a plan. She didn't know the layout of the fortress, but she had paid attention when the rogues brought her in. The staircase leading to the dungeon spiraled upward, suggesting there was only one way out. If she could make it past the guards, she might have a chance.
Mia glanced around the cell, her eyes scanning the walls and floor for anything she could use. The stones were old and uneven, with small cracks running through them. She ran her fingers over the cracks, searching for any loose pieces.
After several minutes of searching, her fingers brushed against a small, jagged stone. She pried it loose, her heart racing as she examined it. It wasn't much, but it was sharp enough to scrape away at the rust on the tray.
The hours dragged on as Mia worked in silence, using the stone to sharpen the edge of the tray. Her fingers ached, and her wrists were sore, but she didn't stop. She couldn't afford to.
The other prisoners watched her in silence, their hollow eyes following her every move. Some of them whispered among themselves, their voices low and cautious, but none of them spoke to her directly.
By the time the tray's edge was sharp enough to use, Mia's hands were trembling with exhaustion. She leaned back against the wall, clutching the makeshift tool in her hand.
Now came the hard part.
That night, the dungeon was eerily quiet. The only sounds were the faint rustle of straw and the distant drip of water. Mia sat in the shadows, her eyes fixed on the lock of her cell.
She waited until the guards made their rounds, listening as their footsteps echoed down the corridor and faded into the distance. When she was certain they were gone, she crept toward the door, her breath shallow and quiet.
Her hands shook as she inserted the sharpened edge of the tray into the lock. She had never picked a lock before, but she had watched others do it in the past. She twisted and turned the tool, her heart pounding with every small click.
Minutes felt like hours as she worked, sweat dripping down her brow despite the cold. Finally, with a soft _click_, the lock gave way.
Mia froze, her breath catching in her throat. She glanced around the dungeon, but the other prisoners remained silent, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.
Pushing the door open as quietly as she could, Mia stepped out of the cell. The cold stone floor sent a chill through her bare feet, but she ignored it. She couldn't afford to hesitate now.
Mia's escape had begun, but the fortress was vast, and danger lurked in every shadow. She didn't know what awaited her beyond the dungeon walls, but one thing was certain: she wasn't going back.