Days turned into weeks, and Mia lost track of time in the dim, suffocating chamber. Her hands had grown rough and calloused from gripping the wooden spokes of the massive wheel. Her muscles ached, her body screamed for rest, but she kept turning. The wheel never stopped—it couldn't. The grinding sound of the gears was a constant reminder of her captivity.
At first, she had resisted. Her hands had slipped, her legs had buckled, and the guards had been quick to punish her for every falter. But as the days wore on, Mia learned to pace herself. She found a rhythm, a way to conserve her energy while still keeping the wheel turning. The pain dulled to a constant throb, and her mind, though weary, stayed sharp.
She wasn't alone in the chamber. Around her, other prisoners toiled at their own wheels, their chains rattling with every movement. They were all men—huge, hulking figures with broad shoulders and scarred faces. Their sheer size was intimidating, but their spirits seemed as broken as the wheels they turned.
Some of them worked in silence, their eyes fixed on the ground. Others muttered to themselves, their voices low and hoarse. A few cast wary glances in Mia's direction, but none dared to speak to her.
At first, she had been terrified of them. They were rogues, after all—men who had abandoned their packs and lived by brutal, lawless rules. But as the days passed, Mia realized they were just as trapped as she was. Their chains were just as heavy, their exhaustion just as evident.
One day, as Mia pushed against the wheel, her arms trembling from the strain, she caught sight of the man working closest to her. He was massive, with arms like tree trunks and a thick mane of unkempt black hair. His face was hard and weathered, his jaw set in a permanent scowl.
He glanced at her briefly, his dark eyes narrowing. Mia quickly looked away, focusing on the wheel in front of her. But she could feel his gaze lingering, and it made her uneasy.
"You're still standing," he said finally, his voice deep and gravelly.
Mia hesitated, unsure if he was mocking her or making an observation. She decided to respond cautiously. "I don't have much of a choice."
The man grunted, a sound that might have been a laugh. "None of us do."
Mia glanced at him again, this time holding his gaze. There was something in his expression—something that wasn't quite defeat.
"What's your name?" she asked, her voice low.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Why do you care?"
"Because I'm tired of being alone," Mia admitted.
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Call me Garrick."
Over the next few days, Mia found herself speaking to Garrick more often. Their conversations were brief, whispered between the grinding of the wheels and the watchful eyes of the guards. But they gave her a flicker of hope—a reminder that she wasn't entirely alone in this nightmare.
Garrick told her little about himself, but what he did share painted a grim picture. He had been a rogue for years, forced into this life after losing his pack in a bloody conflict. He didn't speak of his past with bitterness, but there was a quiet anger in his voice that Mia recognized all too well.
"You don't belong here," Garrick said one evening, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wheel.
Mia glanced at him, her brow furrowing. "Neither do you."
He smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I made my choices. You… you're different."
Mia didn't know how to respond. She wanted to ask what he meant, but the sharp clang of a guard's boots against the stone floor silenced her.
The guards were a constant presence, their eyes cold and calculating as they patrolled the chamber. They rarely spoke, but their whips spoke for them. Any sign of defiance was met with swift and brutal punishment, and Mia had learned quickly to keep her head down.
But she hadn't given up.
Every night, when the guards locked the prisoners in their cells, Mia lay awake, her mind racing with plans. She studied the chamber, memorized the guards' routines, and watched for any weaknesses in their defenses.
Her conversations with Garrick became more purposeful. She asked questions—carefully, so as not to raise suspicion. How many guards were there? Where did they keep the keys? Was there any way to communicate with the outside world?
Garrick was reluctant to answer at first, but over time, he began to share what he knew. He told her about the fortress's layout, the shifts the guards worked, and the rumors of an old, forgotten passage that led out of the dungeons.
"It's just a story," he warned her one night. "I've never seen it myself. But if it's real, it might be your only chance."
Mia nodded, her determination hardening. "I'll take any chance I can get."
The days continued to blur together, but Mia no longer felt as hopeless. She was growing stronger, her body adapting to the relentless work. Her hands were rough and blistered, her muscles sore, but she refused to let the pain break her.
She began to notice things she hadn't before—small details that might prove useful. The way one of the guards always left his keys hanging from his belt, just within reach. The loose stone near the base of her wheel, which could be pried free with enough effort. The way the guards seemed to grow careless during the night shift, their vigilance dulled by exhaustion.
Mia kept these observations to herself, but she couldn't hide the flicker of hope in her eyes. Garrick noticed it, and one evening, he leaned closer to her, his voice low and serious.
"Be careful," he said. "Hope can be dangerous in a place like this."
Mia met his gaze, her jaw set. "So can giving up."
For a moment, Garrick said nothing. Then he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fair enough."
Mia didn't know when or how she would make her move, but she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn't spend the rest of her life turning that wheel.
The rogues thought they had broken her. They thought the chains and the wheel and the endless grind would crush her spirit.
But they were wrong.
Mia was biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And when that moment came, she would be ready.