Chapter 43
I sat unmoving in the farthest corner of the cell, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees, as if the gesture alone could shield me from the bitter cold that had settled deep within my bones.
The air was thick with the sounds of despair. Somewhere in the distance, muffled sobs carried through the halls, joined by the occasional anguished plea or a chilling laughter that sent shivers down my spine. It was a melody of suffering.
Why was Millicent not here?
Surely she must have learned of my imprisonment by now. She would never allow this. Would she?
My hands clenched, my nails pressing into my palms as I wrestled against the sickening uncertainty clawing at my insides. Had I misjudged her? Had I been a fool? Had I placed my trust, my heart, into the hands of someone who now discarded me without a second thought?
No. I refused to believe it.
She would come. She had to. She must.
I had long since lost my grasp on time. My stomach churned. Hunger had become my only companion.
My head lolled against the icy wall, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on me. I closed my eyes, but the sharp sting of hunger wrenched me back into awareness. My fingers weakly clutched at my stomach, as if I could quiet the insatiable void within me. My once elegant gown now hung from my body in tatters, stained with dirt and the filth of this wretched place. My bare shoulders could no longer summon the strength to shiver against the cold.
Then, the monotony was broken.
Footsteps.
I lifted my head with great effort. A soldier appeared at the cell door. He did not speak. He did not meet my gaze. He merely placed a small bowl just beyond the rusted bars before turning and vanishing into the dim corridor.
I forced myself forward, but my limbs had long since betrayed me. My legs buckled, and I crumpled onto the stone with a soft, pained cry. I remained there for a moment, my breath shallow and vision swimming. Then, dragging myself forward, my trembling hands reached for the bowl beyond the iron bars.
My fingers scooped at the watery mixture within the bowl. A few grains of rice clung to my skin, and without thought, I shoved them into my mouth. It tasted divine.
I pressed my lips to the rim of the bowl, pushing my face between the bars as I drank what little remained. Water dribbled down my chin, mixing with the grime on my skin, and still, I drank. The moment the last drop was gone, I fell back onto the floor, my breath shallow, my body spent.
And so, the days passed.
Or at least, I believed they did. I counted the bowls, marking the passage of time by the only measure I had left. Two bowls a day. Seven days, perhaps? Or longer? The portions dwindled with each offering, the broth thinning until it was little more than cloudy water with the ghost of rice floating within it.
Then, the hunger changed. It no longer clawed at me. My stomach no longer twisted in pain. The sensation of suffering had abandoned me.
When the next bowl arrived, I did not move. My body had ceased to obey me, my limbs leaden, my mind slipping into an endless haze. I stared blankly at the door, my vision blurred.
Millicent. Where was she? Why had she not come?
Then, there was only darkness. And I let it take me.