More figures emerged from the trees, surrounding them.
Cara's grip on her arm tightened. "Nysa…"
The masked man stepped closer, his voice dripping with cruel amusement.
"Did you really think you could escape?"
Nysa's breath came in ragged gasps.
She had no answer.
Only fear.
And the crushing certainty that they were caught.
---
The world was a cacophony of suffering, shouts like jagged steel, the scrape of chains on raw flesh, the animalistic grunts of men shoving them forward. Nysa stumbled, her bare feet splitting on the jagged gravel, each step leaving smears of blood in the dirt. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and the sour tang of fear.
A whip cracked.
Someone screamed.
Nysa flinched, her bound wrists yanking against the rusted manacles that bit into her skin. The iron was slick...whether from sweat or blood, she couldn't tell. Her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps, her lungs burning with the dust kicked up by the shuffling mass of prisoners. Around her, men and women—some barely older than children, some with faces lined by decades—trudged forward in a broken line, their eyes hollow.
A child sobbed nearby, a sound so raw it clawed at Nysa's chest.
"Quiet!" A guard backhanded the boy, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Nysa's stomach twisted. She wanted to reach for him, but the chain linking her to the others jerked her forward.
Keep moving. Don't draw attention.
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself not to look back. Not at the boy. Not at the man who had cried out moments before, his voice cut short by the sickening thud of a club meeting flesh.
The memories surged unbidden, fire, screaming, her mother's hands shoving her into the dark.
"Run, Nysa! Don't look back!"
She had. Just once.
And the image of her mother's wide, desperate eyes had haunted her ever since.
A sharp tug on the chain snapped her back to the present.
Breathe. Stay calm.
She blinked against the sting of tears and grit, stealing a glance to her left. Cara was still there, her blonde braids frayed, her lip split and crusted with dried blood. But despite the bruises mottling her arms, despite the way her tunic hung torn and filthy from her shoulders, her gaze was sharp. Alert.
Alive.
That alone was enough to keep Nysa from shattering.
---
The days that followed were a blur of exhaustion and terror.
They marched beneath a pitiless sun, their captors herding them like cattle. Those who faltered were whipped. Those who resisted were beaten. Nysa had seen a girl—no older than sixteen—try to slip into the trees.
She didn't make it five steps before an arrow took her in the back.
Her scream still echoed in Nysa's nightmares.
At night, they were bound together like livestock, wrists lashed to a central rope, bodies pressed too close for dignity. The ground was hard, the air thick with the stench of unwashed skin and despair.
Nysa's dress, once fine linen, was now stiff with dirt and sweat, the hem frayed from snagging on thorns. Her hands were a mess of blisters and cuts, her legs ached constantly, and she barely had the strength to swallow the stale bread thrown at her once a day.
And yet.
She was alive.
Cara was alive.
And as long as they breathed, there was hope.
---
The third evening arrived with a thick sky, painted with streaks of dusky purple and orange. Their captors halted in a shadowy alcove off the road, hidden beneath trees thick enough to blot out the fading sun.
The men began setting up camp—crudely—spitting curses as they kicked at logs and barked at each other for food. The group of prisoners, maybe thirty in all, were ordered to sit. Two guards circled them constantly, swords drawn and expressions as mean as ever.
Cara slid closer to Nysa and sat down beside her, their backs pressed to the same tree. For a while, she said nothing. Then, softly, "We can't keep doing this."
Nysa didn't respond.
"I know you don't trust me," Cara continued, her voice low, barely above a whisper. "But I've been watching them. One of the guards—the skinny one—always goes into the trees after dinner. Probably to relieve himself. He's the only one who steps far away."
Nysa turned to her. "So?"
"So," Cara whispered, "we slip away when he does. We won't get another chance. They're tired. They're not watching as closely anymore. We wait for the right moment and run."
Nysa frowned. "You've seen what they do to escapees."
"That's why we'll succeed. Because we won't try what they did—running when the camp's awake, or struggling in full view." Cara leaned in closer. "It's just the two of us. We move quietly. We move fast. We know what we're doing."
Nysa hesitated, heart thudding. She wanted to believe Cara. But things weren't the same between them. Not after everything Cara had done. The lies. The betrayal.
Even now, Cara hadn't once apologized.
What stung the most was the way Cara acted like she, Nysa, owed her something. Like Cara was the one wronged. The idea disgusted Nysa. It twisted something in her gut. Even in captivity, Cara still carried that same entitlement—as though all it would take was Nysa forgiving her, just like that.
Still…
She looked around.
Thick forest. A single path leading back toward Varos—maybe. A second path winding deeper into nowhere. Dying firelight, and captors who were growing careless.
She didn't trust Cara.
But she trusted her own need to live.
"…Fine," Nysa whispered. "We try."
Cara's shoulders relaxed just a little. "We wait for the signal. The moment he leaves."
"Don't talk to me again unless it's about the plan," Nysa added coldly.
Cara blinked, clearly wounded, but said nothing. She nodded.
That night, they sat in silence under the trees, heads down, eyes flicking toward the guard Cara had mentioned. The skinny one. The lazy one. Nysa memorized every movement he made—how often he blinked, how frequently he scratched his neck.
She waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Until he stood up.
.
.