The moon hung high above the estate like a silver eye, watching the suffering below with a cold indifference. Night cloaked the sky, but within the slave estate, the torches never dimmed—flames constantly licking at the darkness, keeping prisoners reminded that even shadows were not safe here.
Nicole crouched low in the tangled brush of the garden's outer wall, her fingers trembling against the dirt as she rubbed her swollen belly. Her breaths were shallow, quick, but focused.
Beside her, Clarice clutched a rusted trowel, her arms bruised from days of labor but her eyes alert, flicking from shadow to shadow.
Dixie stood just ahead, peering through a thin crack in the outer fence. Her once-wild red eyes were narrowed with calculation, studying the rotations of the guards who circled the perimeter like hungry wolves.
"They've doubled them," she whispered. "Since the last escape attempt. They're expecting us to try again."
