Chapter 2: Chains and Choices
881 Words
The storm broke with a scream of wind and steel-colored rain.
Thunder rolled across the capital, shaking the dungeon stones like bones in a beast's throat. Adele crouched in the corner, rusted wire hidden in her sleeve, waiting for the right moment.
“You ready, girl?" Vika rasped from her cell. “Storm's your mother tonight—use her voice."
Adele didn't answer. She pressed the wire between her palms, slipped it into the maw chain's ancient lock, and began to saw. Each scrape matched the thunderclap above.
One. Two. Scrape.
A drop of sweat slid down her temple.
Three. Four. Scrape.
Footsteps echoed down the hall—too early.
She froze, heart stuttering.
The guard.
The one who brought her stale bread and smug looks.
He stopped outside her bars. “Got your ink and parchment, little dove."
He pushed the scroll under the bars with a feathered quill.
“Sign it. Confess. Save yourself a slow death."
She stared at the parchment. It was pre-written, of course. All lies.
*I, Adele Green, confess to conspiring with foreign enemies to assassinate Prince Reno Vicar.*
“Go on," he urged. “The prince might even spare you a finger or two."
She said nothing.
“You think he cares?" he sneered. “He's moved on. Already discussing a new match. That cloak you wore? Burned. Just like you will be."
She lifted her chin. “Tell him… I'll die before I sign that."
The guard flinched. Her voice—raw but clear—carried steel beneath the ash.
He snorted. “Your choice."
He turned, boots echoing as he left.
Adele returned to the chain, breath syncing with the next roll of thunder.
Scrape. Scrape.
The old runes glowed faintly as she twisted the wire, metal biting her palms. Then—click.
The shackle snapped open.
She nearly collapsed from relief.
“Atta girl," Vika muttered. “Grate's behind that barrel. Go before your storm mother leaves."
Adele pushed aside a mossy barrel and knelt at the drain grate. Blood crusted its edges. She jammed the wire into the screws, loosening them one by one.
Above, another peal of thunder cracked marble.
The grate gave way.
She slipped into the narrow tunnel, the stench of sewage and rot clinging to her skin.
“Blessings on your feet, child," Vika whispered behind her.
Adele didn't look back.
She crawled through slime and stone, heart pounding in rhythm with the storm.
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##Hours Later – Palace Outskirts
The grate opened into a ravine outside the eastern wall. Adele tumbled out, half-frozen and soaked, into brittle grass and midnight wind.
She crawled behind a boulder, sucking air into burning lungs. Her wrists ached from the maw chains. Her back throbbed.
But she was free.
For now.
She yanked off the remains of her ruined gown, replacing it with a servant's cloak stolen from a washline near the outer court. Her veil, once silk, now served as a bandage.
She didn't stop until the palace was a distant shadow behind the trees.
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##Next Morning – Forest Edge
Crows circled as the sun bled through frost-dusted leaves. Adele gathered pine needles, rubbed them over her arms and hair, killing her scent. She crushed frozen sage into paste and smeared it behind her ears, just like her mother taught her.
*“Wolves track fear, not feet,"* her mother had once said.
She tied her ration card around her wrist.
A charm. A vow.
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##Later That Day – Road to the North Pass
A rickety wagon clattered past, drawn by two gray mules. A group of rough travelers—smugglers, if their scarred hands and concealed blades meant anything—sat beneath patchy cloaks.
“Oi!" one of them called out. “You look half-dead."
Adele limped toward the wagon, eyes downcast.
“Mute, are ya?" the man asked.
She nodded.
“Perfect. Less talk, less risk." He laughed and tossed her a crust of bread. “Climb up. We're headed north."
She clambered aboard, slipping into the shadow of crates. Her fingers brushed velvet—her wedding veil, folded and hidden in her pocket. The jewels sewn into its trim still glittered faintly.
Trade. Leverage. Protection.
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##That Night – Smuggler Camp
They made camp near a riverbend.
“You got a name?" a woman asked, poking at the fire.
Adele shook her head.
“Smart girl," the woman muttered. “Names get people killed."
A younger smuggler leaned closer, peering at her hands.
“You ain't no servant," he muttered. “Look at those wrists."
Adele tugged her sleeves down.
Another spoke up, mouth full. “She's runnin' from something. Bet it's royal."
“Bet she's carrying something worth a fortune."
Adele drew a dagger from her boot—the only thing she'd managed to steal from a drunken guard.
The group laughed.
“You'll do fine with us," their leader said, tossing her a blanket. “Just don't die before the next border."
Adele curled beneath her cloak, listening to the crackle of fire and the distant howl of wolves.
She closed her eyes, one hand on the ration card, the other on her belly.
A new future stirred inside her.
She whispered to the night, “I'm not dying here."
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- Writer
