She waited for the guards to grow complacent. They always did. After hours of silence, their shoulders slumped, their eyelids drooped, and their muttered conversations dwindled into half-hearted grunts. Anya had learned to watch for that moment—the shift from alertness to arrogance. It was the only opening she ever got.
The floorboards betrayed her before she even reached the door. A long, aching creak groaned beneath her weight, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade. She froze, breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, she was sure the guards would turn, that the heavy iron keys at their belts would jangle as they stormed inside.
But nothing came.
Anya gripped the nail tighter, its rust biting into her palm. It wasn't much—just a crooked piece of metal pried loose from the wall with quiet determination—but in her hand, it was more than a weapon. It was a promise.
Now.
Her legs carried her faster than she thought they could, bare feet whispering across the floor as she darted toward the doorway. Her heart thundered against her ribs, louder than the creaking wood, louder than her breath. Freedom—if she could just reach it—was only a few more steps away.
But then a shadow fell across her.
It wasn't supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to be there. The hand that caught her shoulder was rough, unyielding, and in a single jerk he spun her around as though she weighed nothing. The nail clattered to the ground, useless, as his boot drove hard into her ribs.
Pain exploded through her chest. The air fled her lungs in a strangled gasp, and she folded onto the floorboards like a broken doll.
"You think you can escape?" His voice dripped with contempt, close enough that she felt the heat of his breath. He bent low, his shadow covering her like a cloak of darkness. "You're nothing but a child."
Anya's vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. A child. That word cut deeper than the bruise blooming across her ribs. Maybe once it had been true. Maybe once she had cried herself to sleep wishing for her mother's arms, or for the safety of a home she could barely remember. But not anymore.
Every fall was teaching her how to get back up. Every bruise, every scar, every night spent listening, learning, waiting—it was all shaping her into something harder, sharper.
Her captor sneered down at her, already dismissing her as defeated, already turning away.
Anya's fingers curled slowly against the splintered floorboards. She wasn't strong enough—yet. She wasn't fast enough—yet. But she would remember this moment. The sting of his boot, the cold of the floor, the weight of failure pressing down on her chest.
Because one day soon, she wouldn't be the one lying on the ground.
She swallowed the pain, forced herself to breathe through it, and met his gaze with something steadier than fear.
"I'll learn," she whispered, so quiet he barely heard. "And next time… you won't stop me."
His laughter was cruel, echoing in the small room as he left her there, curled and trembling. But behind her eyes, behind the pain, fire flickered.
And fire always found a way to spread.