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  morning comes quick.

  “Good morrow…” she says again as she limps, the iron clasp peeling away at her skin.

  He heads to a different room, clattering objects, and eventually emerges with a tight rope.

  Cleo backs away until she hits the makeshift bed, a sudden shift in her breathing. He catches the ferocious glare in her eyes as he walks past her, once again leaving her alone without food, clothes, or shelter.

  His departure leaves cleo light hearted and bitter.

  she eases away from the table and runs her hands up her face till she tugging at her hair. she groans loudly, frustration and hunger eating away at her patience.

  “patience cleo…” she warns herself as she winces from the growing stench of her body.

  she limbs back to the seat groaning as her shoulder hits the rest harder than she expected. “argh!” she hunches over and huffs, her breaths shallow and cold.

  A bizarre feeling overcomes her the corners of her eyes blur, her heart quickens before she thuds on the floor breathless before she has a chance to recover darkness consumes her mind. The unexpected aftermath of the poison had set in.

  she wakes again, blinking softly as she forces herself from the ground. each movement a painful reminder of her wounds.

  Night had fallen, and the dim moonlight cast a dull glow across the lonely castle.

  “Zadarrah?” Cleo called out, her voice strained. “Zadarrah!” she shouted again, but as she did, a sharp pain seared through her temples, her ears ringing. Her vision wavered, darkness swallowing the edges. Clutching her stomach, she hunched over, her body convulsing as she vomited, her breath shallow and rapid.

  Soon after, hurried footsteps echoed from the hall, growing louder. She quickly wiped her mouth, ducking behind a large chair, counting as they entered. “One… two… three… four… five,” she muttered, watching as each man leaned against the door, struggling to catch their breath before they barricaded it with their bodies. A pounding and snarling from outside shook the door, growing louder with every strike. Cleo trembled, realizing that Zadarrah had not returned.

  As dawn crept in, the noises faded, replaced by an eerie silence. Each man slumped to the floor, wiping sweat from their brows despite the frigid air. They were James, Franklin, Pusher, Taron, and Ston—each one a rough match in size and build to the others.

  “Look at this place… marvelous,” James panted, pulling a cross from beneath his thick clothing. “The good Lord always provides,” he added with fervor.

  “Amen!” they howled in unison, patting each other on the back. Cleo smirked from her hiding spot, sizing them up—likely deserters, cowards from the battlefield.

  “Shh… I smell something,” Pusher muttered, sniffing the air and inching towards Cleo’s direction.

  “Come out!” Taron shouted, stepping forward, his pale blue eyes curious, golden hair tousled.

  Cleo stood slowly, revealing herself with a limp as far as her chains would allow, holding her head high. Taron’s face flushed, and he stammered, “Who…who…who are you?”

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  Pusher chuckled, slipping off his coat and draping it around her shoulders. “Apologies for our rude entrance. Didn’t think anyone could survive in here…alive,” he said with a faint smile.

  “Aye! And definitely not a tiny woman,” Ston snickered, stepping closer. “You smell like horse crap,” he added, only to earn a smack from Pusher.

  “Apologies,” Pusher repeated, eyeing her chains. “Did someone lock you up here?”

  “Obviously, she’s not here by choice,” Ston interjected, raising his axe and breaking the chain. “Hold still,” Pusher whispered, carefully gripping the frosted metal near her wrist. Cleo winced, feeling the bite of the icy iron, but didn’t pull away until the clasp gave way.

  “What now?” Pusher asked.

  James replied, “Whoever locked her here wanted her to die.”

  “Maybe…we take her with us?” Taron suggested, glancing shyly at Cleo. “She looks our age.” He turned to her, his cheeks flushed. “How… how… how old are you, miss?”

  Cleo tilted her head, giving him a puzzled look without replying.

  “Can she even speak the common tongue?” Franklin scoffed, amused.

  “She’s dead weight,” James cut in, his tone firm. “She can’t run on that leg. Get what you need; we leave before the sun climbs.”

  As the men scattered to gather supplies, Pusher gave Cleo a faint, regretful smile before he walked away. A few moments later, James called out, “Where’s Ston?”

  “Upstairs, I reckon,” Taron replied, pocketing some dried fruit. He nudged Pusher, who gestured to Cleo, seated and staring absently at the wall.

  “Good morrow,” Taron greeted nervously, offering her some food and water. Cleo glanced at him, her gaze sharp and indifferent.

  “I brought some water and…” Taron fumbled, clearing his throat as he handed her soap. “There’s a stream nearby… if you want to wash.”

  Cleo accepted the soap, nodding faintly. Taron returned her smile with a grin. “God save you,” he said, before the group began to leave.

  James was the last to exit, glancing back at her. “Look… you better not be here when those things come back.” He reached back, placing a knife beside her makeshift bed. “In case you need it before you can get out.” He turned, leaving without another word. Yet Cleo understood—the knife was not protection from the horrors beyond. It was a quick escape.

  The sun was warm against Cleo’s skin as she stepped outside, the gentle breeze caressing her like a comforting hand. She inhaled deeply, savoring the fresh scent of earth and wildflowers carried on the wind. The narrow stream glistened in the distance, and she felt a smile tug at her lips. She darted toward the water, her feet light on the grass, a moment of freedom in a world otherwise filled with danger.

  Kneeling beside the stream, she dipped her hands into the cool water, the shock of it sending a shiver through her. She lathered her hair and body with the soap, scrubbing vigorously until her skin was as bright as the daylight filtering through the trees. “finally…” she exhaled heartily. The dirt and grime of the past few days washed away, swirling down the stream like forgotten memories.

  With the little soap she had left, Cleo washed her clothes, wringing them out with determined hands before laying them over a rock to dry. The warmth of the sun on her back was a small comfort as she set about making a fire. She heated the plant roots she had gathered earlier, applying the warm paste to her wounds. The sting was sharp, but she bit her lip, pushing through the pain. This was nothing compared to what she had endured.

  The rosemary paste she prepared for her teeth tasted bitter, the ashes adding a gritty texture as she scrubbed with the small piece of wood. Still, it was better than nothing, a ritual that made her feel human, even as the foolish warlock seemed determined to strip that humanity away.

  When her clothes were finally dry, she slipped them back on and retreated inside, the walls of the small cottage a temporary refuge. She ate some of the dried fruit she had been given by the fourth of the five brave cowards, washing it down with cool water. Her eyes fell to the knife beside her, the blade catching the last rays of sunlight. She picked it up, feeling the weight of it in her hand, a small comfort against the creeping darkness outside.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, the earth began to tremble beneath her feet. Cleo’s heart raced. She rushed to the door, her breath catching in her throat as she saw them—dark beasts, their forms twisted and ragged, surging toward her like a living nightmare.

  “that foolish man.” she grunted as she slammed the door shut.she dragged this large chair to wedge the handles, a futile attempt at keeping the horrors at bay. The snarls and growls outside grew louder, more menacing, and she knew the door wouldn’t hold for long.

  She turned, her mind racing as she searched for another way out. she could hardly think straight ever since he’d done a futile attempt at poisoning her to death. The corridors stretched out before her like a maze, each doorway leading to another dead end. Doors were torn from their hinges, rooms laid bare, offering no place to hide. Panic clawed at her chest as the snarling intensified, the sound echoing through the empty halls.

  Then, with a deafening crash, the door gave way, the hinges snapping as the beasts poured in. Cleo groaned with annoyance, the sound tearing from her throat as she bolted up the stairwell. The knife felt too small, too insignificant in her grasp as she clutched it tightly, her only defense against the horrors that pursued her.