Verry's hand was like iron around her arm, dragging her through the streets, but Metheea's heart raced not with fear but with the burning need to escape. Every painful step, every ache in her leg, only fueled her anger.
I won't let him win. She refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing her cry out in pain. His dominance could burn her skin, but it would never claim her spirit.
Her vision blurred with rage and exhaustion, and the humiliation of being dragged like a prisoner stung deep within her chest. She wasn't done yet, though. She couldn't let him win.
Behind her, Lerima's cruel laugh echoed as the guards tightened their grip.
Metheea clenched her jaw. No. She wouldn't be humiliated like this. Not by them. Not by any of them. Her hands shook with barely contained fury, and she gathered the strength to dig her heels into the ground.
But it wasn't enough. Verry's grip pulled her forward, the world spinning with each forced step. Her body screamed in protest, but she pushed it aside.
"Let go of me!" she spat, struggling against Verry's firm hold.
"You're nothing, Metheea," Verry sneered, dragging her through the narrow alley. "A broken little girl trying to escape the inevitable. I've had enough of your games."
The sharpness in his voice fueled her anger, but she refused to be a pawn any longer. No more games. She dug her heels in, her fists clenched, but still, he dragged her forward.
But then, something glinted in the sunlight—a sword at the guard's hip, left unattended.
Desperation flooded her, her mind barely registering the pain in her leg. She twisted her body with a burst of effort, her muscles screaming, but she couldn't stop. Her hand shot out, fingers brushing the hilt. This is it.
With a swift motion, she pulled it free. The blade was heavy in her hand, but she didn't hesitate—she couldn't afford to.
"You think you can escape with that?" he laughed looking at her. The guards unsheathed their swords too looking at her retreating figure to the wall.
But Metheea was already one step ahead. She swung the sword in front of her, the tip pressing to her neck as a powerful threat. Her hands shook from the effort, but she kept it steady, the blade gleaming with defiance.
Verry stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide with disbelief. "You think I'll let you—?"
Metheea's voice was cold, cutting through his words.
"I won't go quietly," she said, pressing the sword harder against her neck, backing toward the wall. Her breath came in short gasps, but the anger in her chest burned brighter than the pain in her leg.
Verry took a step toward her, his anger palpable as he tried to regain control.
"You really think you can threaten me with that?" His voice was venomous, but the hesitation in his eyes betrayed him.
Metheea didn't flinch. She held the sword with both hands now, the steel steady in her grip.
"I've had enough of your control," she said, her voice firm. "If you want me, you'll have to control my cold, dead body."
Verry's face twisted with contempt, but there was no more immediate rush to grab her. His hands hovered at his sides, unsure for the first time.
For the first time, Metheea could feel it—control. She had taken it. And she wasn't going to let it slip away.
"I won't go quietly," she said, her voice thick with defiance.
Lerima stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she watched Metheea hold the sword.
"Really?" she sneered. "You think this changes anything?"
Metheea didn't flinch. The sword remained steady in her hands, her fingers trembling with the intensity of the moment. But her grip was firm, unwavering. She wasn't going to back down now.
Metheea's chest heaved as she struggled to hold the sword steady, the weight of it grounding her. The sword gleamed in her hands, a stark contrast to the darkness that churned within her. Verry's taunts had fueled her resolve, but it was Lerima's voice that cut through her thoughts like a knife.
"You really think that sword will save you, Velista?" Lerima sneered, stepping forward, her eyes gleaming with malicious amusement.
"You think you can be something more than just a pampered, useless princess?" She spit the words like venom. "Your only value has always been your looks, your body—nothing more."
Metheea's breath caught, and the sting of Lerima's words hit her like a slap. She remembered every cruel moment, every beating she had endured in silence because of her.
The anger in her chest bubbled up, but so did the sharp, bitter taste of shame.
But now, she wouldn't let it break her. Not anymore.
Lerima took another step forward, her eyes glinting with satisfaction as she watched Metheea struggle. "You really thought you could escape, didn't you? That anyone would ever help you? You're nothing but a fragile little thing. You'll never be anything more than the plaything you were born to be."
The insults burned like fire, each one a cruel reminder of her past, of everything that had been taken from her. She could feel the weight of those years pressing in on her. The years of feeling useless. Of being told she was nothing. Of being beaten down by words—and by the woman standing in front of her now.
Her hands shook, but not from fear. No. Her chest tightened with rage, but this time, it wasn't weakness. It wasn't despair. It was the fire of a woman who had finally had enough.
Her breath steadied as her gaze never left the woman who had tormented her for so long. The woman who had made her feel small, insignificant. The woman who had thought she could control her.
"I'll kill you," Metheea muttered, her voice dark and steady, the anger a deep current beneath her words.
Lerima's smug smile faltered for a second, but she quickly regained her composure, leaning in closer, too close. "Oh, really? And how do you think you'll do that, princess? With your pathetic sword?"
"Then I guess you're about to find out what I can do," she said, the sword steady in her grip. She stepped forward, the pain in her leg almost forgotten, the fire in her chest burning brighter with every step.
The room seemed to shrink as Metheea took another step toward Lerima, the distance between them closing fast. She could feel the heat of her own anger, the weight of everything she had endured, and it all surged through her in that moment.
She wouldn't be the helpless princess anymore.
She wouldn't be the pawn.
And she wouldn't let this woman mock her ever again.
Lerima scoffed, dismissing Metheea's words, but Metheea didn't wait for her to act. With a surge of resolve, she lunged forward, the sword cutting through the air with surprising speed.
Lerima barely reacted in time. The blade sliced across her side, cutting a deep gash that drew blood, causing her to stagger back in shock. Her breath caught in her throat as the pain hit, and she gripped her side, her face twisting with both surprise and fury.
"You stupid woman!" Verry's voice rang out, filled with rage and disbelief. He had been watching from the sidelines, helpless for once, but now he exploded with anger. "Put that down!" he shouted, his voice trembling with fury. "You think you can escape?!"
"You really thought you could stop me?" Metheea snarled, the sword steady in her hands. She advanced again, pushing forward with every ounce of anger and resolve in her body.
Lerima's face twisted with fury as she regained her balance, blood dripping from the wound. "You'll pay for this!" she hissed, her voice thick with rage.
The sword felt heavy in her hands, the cold metal pressing into her palm. Her heart thundered in her chest, each beat echoing in the quiet room. This was it.
Was she ready to cross this line? Could she truly make herself a killer? Her fingers tightened on the hilt, a surge of determination washing over her. I can't stop now.
But Metheea didn't falter. She had taken control of her fate. She had taken the first step. Now, she wouldn't stop. Not for anyone.
Lerima raised her hand, her fingers curling as she prepared to cast a spell.
Metheea's heart hammered in her chest as she saw the magic gathering in Lerima's palm. But she wasn't going to let her cast it.
With a surge of movement, Metheea slashed the sword, cutting through the air with speed and precision. She didn't hesitate. The sword connected with Lerima's throat in one swift motion, blood spilling from the wound.
Lerima's eyes widened in shock as she staggered back, her mouth opening as if to scream, but no sound came. She collapsed to the ground, twitching once before going still.
The guards stood frozen, unsure of what to do. Their eyes flicked between Metheea and the lifeless body of Lerima. They couldn't believe it—couldn't believe she had done it.
Metheea stood over her, breathing heavily, the sword still gleaming with fresh blood. She looked down at the woman who had tried to control her, her face cold and final.
The guards stood frozen, their eyes wide, not knowing what to do. Metheea stood over Lerima, the sword still gleaming with fresh blood, her chest heaving from the exertion.
"You were never in control," she said, her voice quiet, but there was no mistaking the finality in it. The words hung in the air, heavier than any weapon.