Time in a closed space is the most torturous illusion. It does not move forward or backward, but like a vortex that confuses the mind—making seconds feel like hours, and nights seem like eternity. For Milica, now seated against the wall with her body fully bound, time had transformed into a silent game of observation that could not afford to fail. In that silence, only her eyes remained alive—a pair of red lenses recording everything, tracing every detail, every speck of dust carried by the faint breeze seeping through the gap beneath the door.
For hours—or perhaps just a full hour—Milica remained motionless, except when she slowly jumped to the other side of the room to expand her field of view. With her body still bound from chest to arms to legs, she couldn't explore the room. But she could expand her understanding. She counted the guards' steps as they passed every few minutes, noting their rhythm and the sound of their shoes scraping against the wooden floor. From the sound of their footsteps, she guessed the guard was a single person, weighing no more than 60 kilograms, perhaps a young man—but not a fighter.
Milica's mind was like a thread weaving a pattern. She thought about the knot on her back and recalled the special training she had undergone at the Shadow Academy, where aspiring spies were taught to survive even when completely immobilized. They called it "The Lesson in Silence"—where the body was bound, the mouth silenced, and only the mind was allowed to move freely.
At the time, she was the youngest student. And the only one to graduate with perfect marks.
---
She closed her eyes for a moment, aligning her consciousness with her own body. Not for spiritual meditation, but to feel the knots again. She remembered the direction of the rope's pull—which part was pulled first, which part was used as a lock. Because in every knot pattern, there is always an order, like letters in a sentence. And if she could read that sentence, she might be able to find a small opening.
The first rope crossed from the right shoulder down to the left, then back up and crossed over the chest. She could feel it pressing against the muscles beneath the collarbone, then meeting the main knot between the shoulder blades. From there, the rope forms a hishi karada, a diamond pattern commonly used in upper body locking techniques. But the lock isn't on the chest—it's on the upper arm, right above the elbow. Clever.
Then, at the legs, the intricate Frogtie knot wraps around the thighs and calves. There are no gaps, no slack. Yet the pressure is not painful. This is not a binding meant to torture, but to completely restrain. Even the position of her body reflexively presses against her lungs, forcing her to control her breathing.
Milica slowly opens her eyes.
This isn't the work of an ordinary person. It's the handiwork of someone who understands ancient shibari and combines it with magical seals. And that means this person doesn't just want to confine her body. They want to confine her power as well. The goal isn't to torture... but to restrain. To protect.
Or to wait.
To wait for something. Whether it's nightfall, or someone.
---
The corner of her eye caught a faint glint from the corner of the room. A reflection of light. She looked toward the round table on the left side of the room, where the Arus Lux lamp was softly glowing. Beneath the table, something shiny was visible. Metal? Glass? It was unclear. But it could mean many things.
Of course, she couldn't reach it. But observation was enough.
Now Milica had to start building a strategy. Then she decided on a few steps.
Step one: stay alive and conscious. For that, she needed to regulate her breathing rhythm and sitting posture. She began to practice deep breathing again, a technique from the Night Wing tribe's ritual—breathing slowly through her nose, then holding the air in her stomach to slow her heart rate and keep her body temperature warm. Because if she fainted, or her body lost energy, all this analysis would be in vain.
Step two: posture manipulation.
Milica leaned her body more firmly against the wall, then used the pressure from her heels on the floor to lift her pelvis slightly. Slowly, she slid backward, positioning her body in a nearly upright sitting posture. This allowed her to monitor the window angle that had previously been invisible from the floor.
And outside the window... light.
Not daylight, but the light of a torch.
Someone was there.
Perhaps another guard. Or the owner of the place. The shadow moved slowly, a tall figure in a long robe. Hair tied back. It wasn't clear, but from its movements, Milica could tell: this wasn't an ordinary human. Its movements were too calm, too controlled. Maybe an elf. Maybe a wizard.
The shadow walked across the courtyard, then stopped in front of the house. But it didn't enter.
Milica memorized its body shape, its way of walking, and its line of sight. Whoever it was, it was the center of all this.
---
The night grew deeper. But Milica had not given up. She shifted her body again, now trying to slam herself against the side of the table. A small "thud" sounded, but it was not loud enough to trigger the guards to come.
That was what she wanted—to test the limits of their reaction.
If a sound that loud did not trigger any action, it meant the guards were not too close. Or they were confident that she would not be able to escape.
Arrogance.
A crack.
Milica then began tapping the floor with her bound heels, rhythmically. Three quick taps, two slow taps. A message pattern.
A code from an old surveillance agency—probably no one would read it. But if someone ever passed by and heard it, at least she'd left a trace.
---
By this point, her body was already aching terribly. The pain radiated from her shoulders to her lower back. But she endured it. Every second was used for analysis. Recording.
Then, like a gentle whisper carried by the wind, she heard something.
Not the sound of footsteps.
Not the sound of a human.
But... the sound of machinery.
Click.
Milica turned slowly. The carved wooden door shifted slightly.
Someone was about to enter.
Her eyes sharpened, and this time, she was ready.
She knew she couldn't fight yet. But she could read faces. Remember expressions. Record every word.
Because som
etimes, victory doesn't come from strength...
...But from who understands their enemy first.