Metheea's breaths were shallow, every exhale feeling like an eternity.
Her chest ached with each painful inhalation, the air around her thick and suffocating. The room, cloaked in darkness, pressed in on her from all sides. The damp, earthy smell of old stone filled her nose, mixed with the stale air that had not seen the light of day for who knows how long.
Every breath was a reminder of how far she'd fallen—both her body and her spirit bruised by Verry's hands.
The air around her felt thick, suffocating, as if the weight of her circumstances were pressing against her chest, forcing the air out of her lungs. But she refused to give in. She couldn't. The bitterness, the humiliation, and the fear. These were the things that truly left their mark.
The door was locked behind her, keeping her trapped in this small, claustrophobic space.
There was no way out. She could hear the faint echoes of Verry's curses, his footsteps fading as he retreated down the hall. His rage had subsided for the moment, but the tension inside her heart was only growing.
Every second that passed seemed to tighten the noose around her. The thought of being locked away like this for the rest of her life gnawed at her.
She couldn't help but think of Azrayel. Could he be out there searching for her? The thought felt almost absurd. He didn't even know where to begin looking. She had no way of knowing if he even cared enough to try.
But no.
She couldn't afford to dwell on that. Azrayel, or anyone else, wouldn't be able to help her. This was her fight. She had to break free on her own. She couldn't wait for a rescue that might never come.
Her body was tense, her mind sharp and focused despite the throbbing pain. Every thought, every movement was calculated. She had been pushed to the edge of her endurance, but she would not break. She couldn't afford to.
Her eyes swept the dimly lit room, scanning the space for anything that could be used to her advantage. The walls were thick and solid, unyielding in their design. They were covered in wooden panels, possibly to insulate the room from the cold or maybe to make it appear less grim. She didn't know, nor did she care. What mattered was whether they could be removed.
Her fingers twitched with the urge to act. She knew she couldn't waste time thinking. There had to be a way out, and she would find it.
Metheea moved toward the wall, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. She knelt down, pressing her hands against the wooden panels, testing them. The wood felt rough under her fingertips, and she winced as a sharp splinter pricked her skin. She barely noticed the pain as she focused on the task at hand.
She had to get out. She could not allow herself to be locked away in this prison or any prison.
The floor beneath her feet felt unstable, as if it hadn't been touched in years. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the edges of the panels. They seemed to be securely fastened, but there had to be a weak spot.
Her fingers scraped against the wood, trying to pull it free, but the panels held firm. She gritted her teeth in frustration. It wasn't going to be that easy.
'It has to be possible,' she thought, her voice cold and steady in her mind. 'If they thought they could keep me in here, they're wrong.'
The thought gave her the strength she needed. She pulled harder, her nails digging into the crack between the boards. The wood groaned under her effort, but it didn't yield. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to stop.
'This is my fight,' she reminded herself. 'Only I can break free.'
Metheea's resolve tightened. Her powers were of no use here. They couldn't break the wood or free her. But she wasn't completely powerless. She knew that. She had to rely on what was left: her wits, her determination, and the stubborn resolve that had carried her this far.
The crack in the wall remained small, too small for her to slip through. But it was a crack nonetheless. She could work with that.
She had nothing but time, and time was something she could use to her advantage.
Her eyes scanned the room again, this time more focused. The stone walls were bare, save for the wood that lined them. No tools, no obvious means of breaking the panels but there was something else.
The floor beneath her was cracked and uneven, dust settling into the cracks, years of neglect evident in the crevices. A piece of broken stone caught her attention. She crawled over to it, her fingers trailing along the rough surface, and pulled the small shard free. It was jagged, sharp, and heavy enough to be used as a makeshift tool.
Metheea held the shard in her hand, her fingers tightening around the stone. It wasn't much, but it was something. Her heart pounded with urgency.
She let a thin veil of illusion magic cloak the noise, making it harder for anyone to hear the faint creaks and groans of the panels.
Using the shard, she carefully began working at the crack in the wood, scraping the edges of the panels. The stone bit into the wood, but it was slow, laborious work. Every inch she gained felt like a small victory. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she pulled and scraped, the sound of the shard digging into the wood like nails on a chalkboard.
The pain in her fingers was excruciating, but she kept going.
The hole she'd made was small, but it was enough for her to fit her hand through. She could feel the cool air on the other side, the promise of freedom just out of reach. But the pain in her hands was starting to grow. The rawness of her skin, the ache in her fingers, was nothing compared to the pressure in her chest. The thought of being trapped forever was unbearable. She couldn't let it happen.
She used her illusions to mask the noise as she worked, her magic cloaking the sound of the wood splintering. The last thing she needed was to alert anyone that she was trying to escape. She didn't dare make a sound.
The process felt like it took forever, each movement slow. Every inch of progress felt like a victory, but her body was beginning to betray her. The fatigue was setting in, and her mind started to wander. Could she really do this? Was she truly capable of escaping?
Her hands were bleeding from the sharp edges of the wood, but she pressed on.
Her heart raced, her pulse quickening with each movement. She could feel the weight of the situation lifting, the crushing pressure of being trapped beginning to ease.
It was within her grasp—freedom was just beyond the hole. She could almost taste it, the sweet, exhilarating sensation of escape.
A small breath of relief escaped her lips. Now, with the hole large enough for her to crawl through, she allowed herself to believe it. She could do this. She could escape.
But then, just as she was about to squeeze through the gap, she heard footsteps outside the door. Her heart stuttered, and her stomach lurched. She froze, holding her breath, praying they hadn't heard her. But she didn't have much time. She had to move now.
As she squeezed through the last stretch of the crack, the space felt even smaller than she'd anticipated, but then freedom.
She tumbled into the next room, her body light but trembling from the effort. The air was still, thick with dust, but it felt so much larger than the prison she'd just escaped. The coolness of the room compared to the suffocating heat of the walls almost made her dizzy. The room was empty, save for a few crates stacked against the wall, some old, unused furniture, and a single window. The sight of the window made her breath catch in her throat.
It was her way out, her final chance to escape. Her hands trembled as she moved toward it, her legs unsteady from crawling through the tight space.
The window was old, the glass fogged with age and dust. She rushed to it, her fingers fumbling for the latch. It was stuck at first, but with a hard push, it gave way, the sound of the latch sliding open almost too loud in the silence of the room.
Her heart soared. She could hear the wind outside, a soft whisper calling her to freedom. She was so close now, the final barrier between her and the open world was just the glass. With one swift motion, she shoved the window open, the cold air rushing in to greet her.
Her hands gripped the window sill, her heart racing with excitement and fear. This was it—freedom was within reach.
But then, the door slammed open. The sharp sound of it cut through the silence, and her heart leapt into her throat. She barely managed to squeeze through the window before Verry's voice rang out, furious and cold.
"Where are you going?"
Verry's voice cut through the air like a knife, cold and furious. The door slammed open behind her, and her heart skipped a beat. She froze, every muscle locking up as his angry words rang out.