Chapter 1:thoughts of a prisoner
There are only two types of women in this world: the ones who get fcked over… and the ones who do the actual fcking. Guess which one I happened to be. (I chuckle softly, the sound bitter and dry.)
Ahhh… never get comfortable. While you sleep, your enemy studies you. Watches you. Learns every weakness you don’t even know you have. And the worst part? Your enemies are never far. They sit across the table from you. Share your bed. Watch you breathe.
If someone had told me this two hundred years ago… I would have turned them to ashes and trapped their spirit in a hot metal cage.
When you get f*cked over, you remember it. Every detail. Every betrayal. And when — if — you survive, you do worse. You take the pain, multiply it, twist it, and return it tenfold. You don’t just get revenge… you triple it.
Her laugh was low, dark, and almost musical, echoing against the cold stone walls of the King’s cave. Shadows curled closer, as if leaning in to hear secrets too dangerous for the sun. Perhaps they understood. Perhaps they did not. But one thing was certain: the witch who had been betrayed was no longer just a woman. She was a storm. And storms did not forgive
She ground her jaws together in utter frustration and anger.
And before I go… you won’t believe who I gave up my power to. It wasn’t a deity. It wasn’t the Darkness, nor the Moon. I — the woman who was once the most powerful — gave it all away… in the name of love. (A dry, bitter chuckle escaped her.)
And guess to who…? A man.
On behalf of all women, I deeply apologize… and take full responsibility.
The stone walls of the King’s cave seemed to shiver in response, cold and silent witnesses to her confession. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the floor, as if recoiling from her words. Outside, the faint rustle of wind hinted at the coming blood moon — her only chance at reclaiming what had been stolen, and perhaps, at finding her lost sisters.
Even here, chained and drained, her presence radiated power. She was more than anger, more than regret; she was a storm waiting to break. And every beat of her heart whispered a warning: those who had betrayed her, those who had stolen her magic, would pay
Chains bit into her wrists, cold iron gnawed at her skin as if mocking her former power. The King’s cave was damp and dim, lit only by flickering torches that threw grotesque shadows against the jagged walls. Every drip of water echoed like a heartbeat — slow, steady, reminding her that she was alive, but barely.
Her blood had been siphoned for centuries, drawn into vials that lined the shelves of the cave. Weapons shimmered with her essence, healing potions glowed faintly, and yet she remained — a husk, chained and breathing, her power dormant but not dead.
And then, almost imperceptibly, a spark stirred. A tiny twitch in her fingertips, a warmth beneath her ribs. It was weak, fleeting, but it was hers. The blood moon whispered promises through the cracks of stone and shadow, carrying a faint pull deep into her veins.
She let her mind drift to her sisters. They were out there somewhere — scattered, weakened, possibly in pain. Her bond to them flickered like a dying flame, but it was not extinguished. The thought of them, combined with the rising blood moon, sent a shiver of power crawling up her spine.
Patience, she told herself. Bide your time. Learn. Wait. And when the moment comes…
Her eyes, dull with exhaustion moments ago, began to glint. A shadow of a smile played on her lips. Even in chains, even drained, the witch who had been betrayed was beginning to awaken. And when she did, nothing — not man, not king, not deity — would stand in her way
