Elena woke again in cold. Not the sharp bite of fear, not the sting of the slap, but the deeper, bone-deep cold of stone that had never known sunlight.
She sat up slowly, breathing through the ache in her cheekbone. Pain radiated down her jaw when she moved, a dull pulse that reminded her she'd been hit—twice.
"Okay," she whispered, voice steadying itself. "Not ideal. But alive."
Her wrists throbbed in the iron cuffs. Each shift of the chain sent a metallic clank echoing through the cell, a sound that grated like mockery.
She rolled her shoulders back. She was not going to sit in a corner and wait to be saved.
She had survived years of underpaid residency. She had a brain. She could survive this.
Her gaze swept the floor. Stone. Dirt. A few scraps of fabric. And—
A piece of bent iron near the drain.
Her pulse jumped.
She crawled toward it, the chain scraping, wrists burning. The iron shard was no longer than her finger, rusted along one edge, but pointed.
Lockpick? Improvised tool? Potential weapon? Yes to all.
Footsteps sounded distantly down the corridor.
Elena froze. Then moved faster.
She twisted the shard in her fingers, angled it into the small lock mechanism of the cuff. Years of dexterity with surgical instruments made her movements precise, despite the trembling.
Click.
Another click.
Almost—
The footsteps grew louder. She swallowed hard and worked faster. The final click snapped loud in the air.
One cuff loosened.
Elena grinned grimly. "Oh, thank god for fine motor skills."
The second cuff required more force, but desperation was a powerful motivator. Sweat slicked her palms.
Click.
Both cuffs slid loose. Chains dropped to the floor with a heavy metallic whisper.
She didn't celebrate. No time. She grabbed the chain itself, wrapping a portion around her fist for weight. The cuff still attached served as a crude flail.
She stood—slowly. Quietly.
The cell door creaked open. A man stepped in.
Her captor from before—the one who hit her. Taller than she'd thought, armor black and angular, a faint emblem glowing dull red on his chest.
His gaze swept the cell.
Stopped.
On her.
Then on her freed wrists.
His mouth curved.
"Well," he said, voice a low purr of contempt, "aren't you resourceful."
Elena swung.
Fast.
Hard.
Every muscle behind it.
The chain–flail cracked across his forearm with a satisfying metallic bite. He grunted, more surprised than injured.
She darted for the door.
He caught her by the arm, dragging her backward, spinning her so her back slammed against his chest.
Pain spiked up her spine. She didn't hesitate. She drove her elbow into his ribs—aimed for the floating ones. He hissed and shoved her forward.
She stumbled but caught herself.
"Little wildcat," he muttered. "No wonder the prince wants you."
She spat blood onto the floor.
"Tell your emperor," she said, "I'm not a gift he gets to unwrap."
His laugh was dark. "The Emperor doesn't want to unwrap you. He wants to use you."
Elena stilled.
He leaned in, breath cold at her ear. "The rift does not open without its key."
Her stomach twisted. "Key?" she breathed. "What key?"
"You."
That one word sliced through her. She recoiled, but he grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him.
"You appear exactly where the rift awakens. You survive its pull. You don't die like the others." His eyes gleamed. "You are the key. The one who will open it fully."
Her blood ran cold.
"No," she said.
"Yes."
She swung the chain again, catching him by surprise. It cracked against his shoulder this time, enough to make him stumble.
Enough to let her try to run again.
But her legs were still unsteady from the drug. Her head spun.
The world tilted.
He caught her before she hit the floor, slamming her back against the wall—the same cheek he'd struck earlier scraping stone.
She gasped.
He was breathing harder now, annoyed and far less amused.
"You're going to make this unpleasant," he said. "Fine. The Emperor doesn't need you in perfect condition."
Her heart pounded painfully.
Fear clawed up her throat. She forced it down. She wasn't done yet.
She brought both hands up and shoved him with everything she had. He staggered—not far, but enough for her to slip past him by inches—
Her foot hit the chain on the floor. She fell. Hard. He was on her instantly.
A hand fisted in her hair, dragging her upright.
Her vision swam.
She struck out again—futile, wild, desperate. Her nails dug across his knuckles. He swore and hit her once more across the face.
White burst behind her eyes. She tasted blood.
He knelt, gripping her jaw hard enough to bruise.
"You want to play hero," he said, voice low. "But that prince of yours won't come. Not in time. Maybe not at all."
Something deep inside her rebelled at the words. She forced her eyes open, meeting his.
Darkness swam at the edges of her vision.
"Watch me," she whispered roughly. "I'll escape without him."
His grip tightened. She didn't look away.
And for one second—
just one—
she saw doubt flicker behind his eyes.
He shoved her back, breath sharp with irritation.
"Fight all you want," he spat. "We leave at dawn."
He stormed out and slammed the bars shut. The echo rang like a verdict.
Elena sagged against the wall, breathing through pain, through fear, through fury. Her wrists burned. Her cheek throbbed.
Her blood tasted metallic on her tongue.
She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"Okay," she whispered to herself. "Round one goes to you."
She looked around the cell again.
Chains.Floor ring.Torch bracket.Drain.Possibilities.
Her jaw tightened.
"I will find a way out," she said. "With or without him."
But when she closed her eyes—
just for a second—
a treacherous thought flickered:
What if he doesn't come? Mirenya's voice whispered in her memory. He grows bored of attachments.
Elena swallowed hard.
"No," she whispered fiercely. "He's not like that."
The dark answered nothing. But she kept her chin lifted. Her pulse steadying. Her mind sharpening.
Because she would escape.By force.By strategy.By sheer rage if necessary.
She was not waiting to be rescued. She was getting out.