I waited until the shadows moved differently.
They always changed after the fourth torch was lit.
That was when the shift changed. When the quiet one—the guard with the trembling hands—took his post just beyond my cell bars. He never looked at me. Never spoke. But he always lingered too long while locking the chains. And once, just once, he dropped the key.
He scrambled to pick it up, eyes darting like a trapped animal. But it was the first mistake I could use.
That was four nights ago. Or what I guessed was four.
My body had learned to survive on slivers of sleep and half-rotten bread. But my mind... it sharpened.
In silence, I remembered every lesson Crane taught me. Not just swordplay, but patience. The art of stillness. How to read people not by what they said, but what they feared. And the people here feared me.
Not because of what I'd done.
But because of what they believed I was becoming.
---
It was during a transfer that I heard them speak again.
Two robed figures dragging me down the tunnel toward the altar chamber. They thought I was unconscious—after what they'd injected into my veins, it was a reasonable assumption. But my mind was awake.
"…she's still resisting," one muttered.
"She won't forever," the other replied. "The sigil took root. The moment it burned into her spine, the prophecy sealed."
"She's one of them, you know."
"Not yet. But when the Binding is complete…"
Their voices faded as pain spiked through me again. But I caught the word:
Binding.
Something had been etched into me. Something more than scars.
They were trying to turn me into something .
Not just break me.
Use me.
And somewhere in the hollow of their rituals was a prophecy.
---
I returned to my cell limp, bloodied, but breathing.
And I began to plan.
The weak guard—the one with the trembling hands—I learned his name. Halvik. The others spoke to him with contempt. They didn't trust him. And neither did I. But weakness could be turned.
The next time he brought food, I forced myself to speak.
"I know what they're doing to me."
He jumped like a struck dog, the tray clattering.
I didn't raise my voice. Just held his gaze.
"I know what's coming. And if you don't help me, when they finish… I won't be the only one bleeding."
He paled. But he didn't run. That was enough.
I didn't speak again for two days.
But on the third night, he left the tray and a note beneath it. Folded twice. No seal.
"I didn't know who they were. They call themselves the Hollow Order . They believe you're the last piece to awaken the Sunken Flame. I don't know what that means. I just know they're scared of it. They say if it wakes in the wrong way, it will burn the world."
I read the note ten times.
The Hollow Order.
The Sunken Flame.
And me— the last piece.
Whatever they'd marked into me, whatever they were drawing out of my blood and my bones, it wasn't just power. It was a weapon. And they didn't care if I survived it.
---
I studied the sigil on my back the next time I was brought to the ritual chamber. The walls had polished steel where mirrors should be. I caught my reflection when they turned me.
It spiraled outward from my spine like an open eye, jagged and ancient. Not just carved—branded.
And it pulsed.
With every beat of my heart.
When they brought me back, I told Halvik:
"I have two days. Maybe three. Then they'll finish the ritual."
He shook his head. "I—I can't just open the door. They'd kill me."
"Then give me the map."
He went pale. "What?"
"You clean. You run errands. You know this place. Give me the layout. The halls. Where they keep their weapons. Where they sleep. I don't need you to save me. I just need you to stop pretending this will end well for you if they win."
He left without a word.
But that night, the map came.
Scratched into stale bread with the tip of a spoon. Ingenious. Desperate.
Perfect.
---
I memorized the paths. The exits. The weak points.
Halvik's map showed three exits, but only one led above ground. Through the library—a hall of ancient stone and guarded artifacts. It would be watched. But less than the ritual chamber.
They feared the library for some reason. Called it cursed.
I smiled at that.
I didn't believe in curses.
Only vengeance.
---
On the eve of the ritual, I waited.
Halvik brought water.
I whispered, "Tonight."
His eyes widened. "You'll die."
"I'll die if I stay."
He nodded once.
"I'll leave the door unlocked," he whispered. "That's all I can do."
It was enough.
---
The moment came in silence.
The fourth torch burned low.
And I moved.
My hands shook as I opened the cell door. The hall was empty. I stole the knife from the guard's belt before he turned. He crumpled without a sound.
Blood. Motion. Breath.
I was alive again.
I followed the path. Down two turns. Past a wall carved with fire. Toward the library.
Every step hurt.
But every step meant they hadn't won.
Not yet.
And when I pushed through the old wooden door and found myself in the library, my breath caught.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
The symbols lining the walls—on tomes, on scrolls—matched the sigil burned into me.
The Hollow Order hadn't invented this power.
They'd stolen it.
And at the heart of it… was a book.
A single black tome resting on a pedestal of ash.
Bound in something not quite leather. Something that pulsed when I neared.
I should have turned away.
But I didn't.
My fingers reached for it.
The moment I touched the cover, I saw.
Flames. Cities in ruin. A girl wrapped in white light and blood, standing alone before an army of shadows.
Me.
It was me.
And the voice that echoed through the chamber wasn't mine.
" The world ends when the Flame chooses wrong."
I tore my hand away. The vision vanished.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
I turned.
Halvik stood in the doorway, eyes wide.
"They're coming," he whispered.
I clenched the knife.
Let them.
Let them come.
Because now, I wasn't running.
I was ready to burn them all.