The seam of the door is the only place light dares to enter my world. A faint, crooked line, it pretends to offer comfort — but all it really means is that they're still out there. Watching. Waiting.
Every day is the same. The door bursts open. They shove me to the ground, force water over me in what they call a "bath," drop a tray of stale food in the corner, and leave without a word. This has been my life for four years. Before that day, I knew sunlight, warmth, and the sound of my mother's laugh. Now I barely remember her voice.
I was eight when they took me. Until then, the wizard in the tower was nothing more than a bedtime threat whispered to frighten children. I didn't believe he was real — not until the night his guards stormed our home.
They broke down the door. My mother screamed for me to hide, but I froze. A blow sent her to the floor. Tears blurred my vision as a guard grabbed me, squeezing until I couldn't breathe.
"Am I going to have trouble with you, little bitch?!" he roared in my face. I shook my head hard, too terrified to speak. His grip loosened, but not much.
"We have the children, sir!" another guard called.
"Good. Let's be off before the wizard has a meltdown," the first one growled, dragging me outside.
The cold night bit into my skin. They yanked a potato sack over my head and shoved me into a cart in the middle of the village square. The wood groaned as more bodies were thrown in beside me. I could feel other children pressed against my sides — some sobbing quietly, others wailing.
"If I hear one more fucking sniffle, I'll kill you where you sit!" the guard barked. The cries choked off instantly. I didn't even dare to breathe too loudly.
The cart rattled forward, every bump jarring my bones. Through the sack, I smelled old wood and sweat, heard the creak of wheels and the muffled sniffling no one dared let out fully.
After what felt like hours, new sounds echoed in the distance — the clang of metal, heavy doors groaning open.
"Get the children to their cells!" the lead guard ordered.
"Do we take the sacks off?" someone asked.
"No, you dumbass! Just move them!"
The cart jolted downward, and we were herded out one by one.
"Prisoner 234… Prisoner 235…" the count went on until a rough hand pressed on my head.
"Prisoner 267."
Still blinded, I stumbled forward, bumping into the child ahead of me — 266, I guessed — who whimpered softly. The stone floor beneath my bare feet was jagged and cold, each step slicing skin. I gritted my teeth, swallowing my pain.
Metal scraped. Doors slammed. The air grew colder. One by one, we were shoved into separate rooms.
"This is your home now," the lead guard said. "Remove the hoods."
My fingers fumbled at the knot.
"Now!"
I tried faster, but the footsteps were already coming.
"Are you slow?!" He yanked the sack off, taking strands of my hair with it. I bit back a cry as tears welled up.
A scar ran across his left eye, clouding it. The other was sharp and gleaming.
"I'm your warden," he said, smiling as if the word was a joke. "You will address me as such. Welcome to the wizard's tower."
He turned and slammed the door.
And just like that, the darkness began.