"Move! Move the line!" The slavers barked, their voices like thunder rolling over the crowd of weary captives. A whip cracked through the air, biting flesh, and the cries that followed were drowned beneath the rhythm of countless trudging feet.
Ellie flinched as the lashes fell on the backs of those ahead of her. The day dragged on like all the others—sun beating like molten iron, hunger gnawing at empty stomachs, dust choking every breath. Pain was constant, but she had learned to bury it beneath a mask. She was tired, her body was failing, but her spirit… her spirit had not yet been broken.
Every detail around her mattered. The weight of chains. The angle of the guards' shadows. Which hand a man used to grip his whip. Survival depended on noticing what others ignored.
That afternoon, as they marched across blistering sand, something caught her eye. A faint glimmer half-buried in the dirt. A shard of broken metal, jagged at one end, its rust glistening in the harsh light.
Her pulse quickened. That… I need that.
Without hesitation, she stumbled forward, collapsing to her knees with a strangled cry. Her hands clutched at her calf, and she let her body curl tight as if seared by a sudden cramp.
A slaver's shadow loomed over her. "What is it now, girl?" His voice grated like stone dragged against stone.
"M-My leg…" she whimpered, rocking with fake tremors. "It cramps—"
Another guard spat, his irritation etched across his scarred face. "Excuses again? Get up before I make you crawl the rest of the way!"
But Ellie stayed curled, pressing her forehead to her knee, long enough for her fingers to dart against the sand. She brushed the shard into her sleeve with a single, desperate sweep.
The first kick came sharp and merciless, slamming into her ribs. Pain burst white-hot through her chest, but she smothered the scream rising in her throat.
"Lazy bitch!" the guard roared, raising his whip. The air cracked, the lash missing her skin by inches. "Think you can trick us? Slow my line again and you'll beg for death!"
From behind her, a hushed voice rose. "Leave her be. The child can't even—"
"Quiet!" snarled another slaver. His whip lashed the ground at the speaker's feet. "Any tongue dares speak again, and I'll cut it out myself."
The captives fell silent, but Ellie felt their gazes burn into her back—some filled with pity, others with fear.
She was dragged upright, shoved into line, her ribs screaming with each breath. But her face betrayed nothing. She held tight to the secret pressed against her wrist. The shard was worth every bruise.
---
That night, when the camp was drowned in silence, Ellie moved.
Her wrists were bound raw, skin rubbed to blisters by coarse rope. From her sleeve she drew the shard, dragging it across a stone until it whispered sharpness in the dark. The rhythm became her heartbeat—scrape, scrape, scrape—each stroke a promise that she would not die as a slave.
She had studied everything. She knew which guard always drank too much rice wine, his keys jingling lazily at his belt. She knew which one muttered in his sleep, which one's head always dropped first when exhaustion won. Even her own ropes—she had pulled at them day by day, fraying them until they were no longer invincible.
From beneath her mat, she slid out a bent nail she had stolen days before. Her fingers worked blind, jamming it into the knot, twisting, prying. Fibers grated, then loosened, one thread giving way, then another. Her wrists burned, her fingertips bled, but progress came slow and steady.
Every night she repeated the ritual. Every night she weakened the ropes, a prisoner's hymn sung in silence.
And then—finally—it happened.
The strands surrendered with a soft snap. Her wrists slipped free. The rope sagged into her lap. For the first time in weeks, her hands belonged to her.
Her breath trembled. She closed her eyes, listening. Snores rattled around her. A cough here, a groan there. The fire outside hissed and crackled. Horses shifted on their tethers.
She rose to her knees, every muscle trembling with dangerous hope.
One step. Then another. She crept past the captives, their bodies curled in exhaustion, eyes sunken from despair. She froze whenever someone shifted, waiting until silence reclaimed the air.
At the flap of the tent, she crouched low. She peeked out. The guards by the fire slumped against their spears, heads nodding heavy. She waited, counting her breaths, then slipped into the night.
---
The air was cool, damp with smoke and sweat. Bare feet padded soundlessly across packed earth. She hugged the shadows, skirting the edges of the tents, heart hammering in her chest. Every rustle of canvas, every snap of twig beneath her toes felt deafening.
She saw it then—the edge of the camp. Beyond it, darkness stretched wide, filled with rocks and trees. Freedom. Just a few more steps.
She dared to breathe.
And then—
A shadow fell across her path.
Her eyes snapped upward. A man stood before her, huge, broad-shouldered, his outline blotting out the moonlight. A guard.
Her heart seized. How did I miss him?
The guard's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into fury. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice was thunder, rattling the night. "You dare to escape?"
Ellie's stomach dropped. She stumbled back, panic choking her, but his hand was already at his belt.
In one swift, merciless motion, he raised the brass trumpet to his lips.
The shrill blast ripped through the silence, a knife of sound that shattered the night. It echoed off trees and tents, cutting through every breath, every heartbeat.
The camp erupted. Voices shouted. Feet scrambled. The fragile hope Ellie had nursed shattered in an instant.