The night air hung heavy with the stench of damp wood and unwashed bodies, pressing in like a weight. The fire had burned low, crackling weakly against the silence that had settled over the camp. Most of the others had turned in, their grumbling fading into the distance, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Thoughts that refused to settle.
"Let it go."
"We'll deal with it later."
"It's just a damn brat."
They didn't get it. They didn't understand what this meant. He had been the one watching the cages. The brat had slipped past him. And now, as he sat there, fists clenched, eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the fire, something gnawed at him.
Had he really missed it?
His mind retraced the events of the morning, picking them apart piece by piece.
It had been his turn to check the cages. He'd gone to the new girl's first—the crying one. She had been wailing early in the morning, an annoying, pitiful sound that had grated on his nerves. He'd kicked her cage to shut her up. That was the only attention he had given her.
But when he had gone back to inspect the cages, he had remembered her.
He'd wanted to mess with her, see if she'd start sniveling again. Maybe taunt her a little, just for fun. But instead of whimpering or shrinking away, she had spoken.
That had caught him off guard.
He had been amused at first, entertained by the unexpected response. He had even tried talking some more, curious to see how much fight she had left in her.
But now that he thought about it…
Her eyes had been moving.
Darting past him. Not at him, but beyond, like she was checking something.
At the time, he hadn't thought much of it. But now, in the dead of night, with the brat long gone and his own failure sinking in, it didn't sit right.
Her cage had been opposite the boy's. She would have had a clear view. She must have seen him picking at the lock. And instead of calling it out, instead of warning him, she had chosen to keep him distracted.
Why?
His jaw tightened.
Had she done it on purpose? Had she known exactly what was happening, played along, and made a fool of him in front of the others?
His fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing hard against his palm.
The brat had escaped. That couldn't be undone. But Elena—she was still here. Still locked up.
And come morning, he would get his answer.
One way or another.
...
The day dragged on, but Elena barely felt it. Time blurred, stretched thin by exhaustion and hunger. No one spoke. No one moved unless they had to. It was as if the weight of the bandit's punishment had pressed down on all of them, grinding them into silence.
Her limbs felt heavy. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, an ache she tried to ignore, but it only grew worse as the hours passed. Some prisoners lay still, their breath shallow, their eyes dull and distant. Others sat hunched, shifting now and then as if the act of staying still had become unbearable.
The bandits, by contrast, moved freely. Some wandered about lazily, their hands resting on their weapons out of habit rather than caution. Others sat together in small groups, talking and laughing. A few dozed off in the warmth of the afternoon sun.
They weren't worried.
Elena watched them from where she sat, her back pressed against the wooden bars of the cage. She didn't miss the way their guards had slackened, the way they no longer looked at the prisoners like threats. No one expected another escape attempt—not after what had happened to the man who tried last time.
Her gaze drifted to Varian.
He hadn't moved much either, but he wasn't completely still. His fingers tapped his knee every so often, a slow, rhythmic motion. Not anxious, not impatient. Just... thinking.
She wasn't sure what about, but she found herself glancing at him now and then, drawn to the quiet steadiness in him. It was strange. She didn't trust him, not really, but at the same time, she found herself staying close.
Neither of them spoke.
And so the day passed in silence, the sun dipping lower, shadows stretching long through the trees. The warmth of the afternoon faded, giving way to the creeping chill of evening. Hunger deepened, pressing like a weight inside her ribs.
Still, no one spoke.
They just waited.
...
Night fell slowly, creeping in through the thick canopy above. The air turned sharp with cold, a stark contrast to the warmth of the day. The bandits, unaffected, gathered around their fires, their laughter and crude jokes echoing through the camp. Their voices carried easily in the stillness, a reminder of how little they had to fear.
Elena barely listened.
A rustle of movement caught her attention as one of the bandits stalked toward the cages, a sack slung over his shoulder. He stopped just outside, pulling out rough wooden bowls and stale chunks of bread. With little care, he shoved them between the bars, the bread hitting the dirt, the bowls sloshing with watery stew.
The smell hit Elena first—something sour, unpleasant. She swallowed against the twist in her stomach. The stew was thin, barely more than cloudy broth with a few floating scraps of unidentifiable meat. It hadn't even been properly heated, just lukewarm at best.
A cruel afterthought.
Some of the prisoners hesitated, staring down at the food as if debating whether hunger was worse than the taste. The answer was obvious. Within moments, quiet movements filled the cage as they reached for their portions, dignity discarded in favor of survival.
Elena did the same, though her fingers curled tightly around the rough, stale bread before she could bring herself to take a bite. It was dry, crumbling slightly at the edges. Still, her stomach ached too much to refuse.
She forced herself to eat, chewing mechanically, barely tasting it.
The stew was worse.
She dipped her fingers into the bowl, lifting a small chunk of meat between them. It was tough, stringy. She didn't want to think about what it had come from.
But the warmth of the bowl against her hands—weak as it was—reminded her just how long it had been since she'd held anything even close to hot food.
So she swallowed, ignoring the way her throat protested.
And in the cold quiet of the night, the prisoners ate, the bandits laughed, and the world moved on.
...
The camp settled into a false sense of peace. Bandits lounged around the fire, their laughter and muttered conversations blending into the crackle of burning wood. Some drank, the clink of metal flasks punctuating the air. Others gambled, tossing worn dice onto makeshift boards scratched into the dirt. A few sharpened their weapons with slow, lazy strokes, not out of urgency but habit.
Elena watched them.
She sat near the edge of the cage, close enough to see their movements but far enough to avoid drawing attention. They were relaxed, too confident. They thought they had already won. No one expected another escape attempt.
Fools.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her bowl. She didn't trust Varian, but she stayed near him. He was the only one who hadn't treated her cruelly. The only one who, for reasons she didn't understand, had chosen to offer her kindness.
She risked a glance at him. He sat cross-legged, his posture easy but his eyes sharp. Every now and then, his fingers tapped against his knee—a subtle rhythm, like a man deep in thought.
...
Elena had been eating, but at some point, she stopped.
Her fingers curled around the rough bread, her gaze unfocused. The stew in her lap had gone cold, the thin broth barely touched.
Varian noticed.
He didn't say anything right away. Just watched, waiting to see if she'd start again. But she didn't.
With a quiet sigh, he shifted, nudging something toward her—a slightly thicker piece of bread, the kind that hadn't been left to dry out completely. His movements were slow, careful, meant not to draw attention.
"Eat up, girl." His voice was steady, but there was something in it—something softer than before. "Won't do you any good to waste away."
Elena blinked at him, hesitant.
She'd learned not to trust kindness. Too many times, it had come with a price. But Varian didn't push. He simply leaned back, taking another bite of his own food, acting as if the exchange never happened.
For a long moment, she did nothing.
Then, slowly, she reached out and took the food.
Across the fire, the bandits continued their easy chatter, their laughter spilling into the night. Some passed around a flask, others leaned against their packs, sharpening blades with slow, idle strokes. Their guard was down. None of them looked toward the cages.
Elena glanced at Varian again.
His gaze was on the bandits, but there was no fire in his eyes. No simmering anger. Just a quiet, tired patience. The look of someone who had waited too long for something that never came.
Then, as if remembering she was there, he gave a small nod, muttering, "You'll be fine, girl. Just stick close to me."
Elena barely heard it.
A pause.
Then, in that same steady voice—one that almost sounded like he believed it—
"These bastards think they own everything. But nothing lasts forever."
She didn't realize it, but she clung to those words.
...
The night stretched on, the firelight flickering against the iron bars of the cage.
Eventually, the meal—if it could be called that—was gone. The bandits moved through the prisoners lazily, collecting the empty bowls without a word. A few stragglers tried to scrape up the last bits of stew, but most had already resigned themselves to their hunger.
One by one, exhaustion took over. The children curled up against the cold ground, their small bodies shivering as sleep claimed them. Others lay still, either asleep or simply too drained to move. The occasional cough or restless shift broke the silence, but the camp had settled into an uneasy stillness.
Elena remained awake.
She sat with her arms around her knees, staring at nothing, her thoughts heavy and tangled.
Beside her, Varian hadn't moved much either. He sat with his back against the bars, fingers idly tracing the rough fabric of his cloak. His expression was unreadable, but he, too, seemed lost in thought.
The bandits were still awake, their voices lower now, more sluggish. A few had wandered off to sleep, but others remained by the fire, their laughter now softer, more spaced out.
The quiet stretched on, broken only by the occasional pop of the campfire and the rustling of leaves as a breeze swept through the clearing. Most of the prisoners had drifted into uneasy sleep, while a few—like Elena and Varian—remained awake, lost in their own thoughts.
Then—hoofbeats.
The sudden, rhythmic pounding of hooves against the earth shattered the fragile calm. At first, it was distant, muffled by the thick forest, but it grew louder, closer. Low voices followed, muttering and cursing under their breath.
The bandits were back.
Some of the sleeping prisoners stirred, others jolted upright, eyes wide with instinctive fear. A child whimpered, clutching at the tattered fabric of an older prisoner's sleeve. The air inside the cage grew thick with unease.
Elena's breath caught in her throat. Did they catch him?
She pushed herself upright, straining to see through the gaps in the cage. The bandits emerged from the undergrowth, their weapons slung over their shoulders, boots caked in fresh mud. Their leader, a wiry man with a scar slashing across his cheek, spat on the ground.
"Damn brat got away."
The tension inside the cage didn't break immediately. It clung to the prisoners like a lingering weight, as if their minds refused to believe the words at first.
One of the bandits muttered, "We should've kept chasing him."
Scarface shot him a sharp look. "And run straight into a patrol? Think for once in your life."
Only then did Elena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Relief crashed into her, leaving her momentarily lightheaded.
Beside her, Varian exhaled as well. She turned toward him, and their eyes met. In the dim light, he gave her a small, knowing smile.
And then, she noticed—others were smiling, too. A few prisoners exchanged quiet, almost imperceptible looks. The boy had escaped. He was free.
It wasn't much. It didn't change their reality.
But for the first time in a long while, hope flickered in the darkness.
—End of Chapter.