Violence came often, and Anya learned to anticipate it. She had memorized the warning signs—the way the guards' boots struck the floor heavier when they were angry, the way their laughter sharpened when they meant to hurt someone.
That night, she was forced to watch as another child, younger than her, was dragged from the corner and beaten. The whip cracked like fire in the air, and blood sprayed across the stone floor, staining it darker than before. The screams carried through the corridors, echoing until they no longer sounded human.
Anya pressed her hands over her ears, but it didn't matter. She could still hear. She could always hear.
And yet, something else stirred.
The shadows in her cell shifted oddly, curling around her bare feet like smoke, like living silk. They lingered, wrapping her ankles as though to shield her from the horror. At first, she thought it was her imagination—fear warping the darkness into something that wasn't real. But as the night stretched on, she noticed it again.
When she flinched from the guards' footsteps, the shadows pulled her closer to the walls. When she shrank back from the blood on the stones, they seemed to swell, covering it from view. And when she moved, they moved too—not quite following, but guiding, as if they were trying to tell her something.
Her heart hammered. She wasn't imagining it.
Then came the noise.
A whisper, low and strange, sliding across the silence like a knife across glass. Anya spun, eyes wide, the shadows scattering at once as if frightened.
And then a voice.
"Hello, Anya."
Her breath caught. "How—how do you know my name?"
From the farthest corner of the cell, the air shimmered. Slowly, a figure emerged—tall, graceful, and impossible. Her presence seemed to soften the harsh stone walls, her beauty too bright for such a place. Hair like woven silver framed a face both kind and distant, and her eyes glowed faintly, like stars trapped in human form.
"I am known as the Goddess of Beauty," the figure said softly. "You may call me Lilya. And I am here to help you."
Anya's pulse raced with disbelief. "Why?" she whispered, curiosity and suspicion tangled in her voice.
Lilya's smile was small, knowing. "Because you carry something within you. Hidden magic. A seed that will grow. And when the time comes, you will need guidance. You are not as powerless as you think."
The words struck her like the promise of rain in a desert. But before she could ask more, before she could reach out to prove Lilya was real, the goddess was gone. Her form dissolved into air, leaving only the heavy darkness behind.
Silence pressed in again.
But then, as if summoned by Lilya's presence, the shadows returned. They rippled across the floor, darker than before, alive. They brushed against her hand, and she felt—not cold, not fear—but something else. Something familiar.
They began to move. Slowly, deliberately, pulling away from the corner of the cell, sliding toward the far wall.
Anya's breath hitched. They wanted her to follow.
Every instinct screamed that this was impossible, dangerous. But the nail in her hand had failed her, her small body had failed her, and hope had been slipping through her fingers for weeks.
This, though—this might be different.
Gathering what courage she had left, Anya rose, her ribs aching, her steps light. And she followed the shadows into the unknown.