Ella
Silver manacles burn into my wrists. The hot, slippery metal slides over my bones as I curl into myself, trying to shelter myself from the pain. Water drips onto my filthy hair. It’s ice cold, which is a welcome relief from the sweltering heat radiating through the room made of sweating pale stone.
There’s a single door and no windows, and I have no idea if I’m underground or high, high above in some tower. Everything from the brief moments of clarity I had after being pulled from the river to now are blurry. Flashes of being dragged by my hair through wet mud. The feeling of silver being sliced over my bruised skin. The sound of manacles being locked in place, and muffled voices lifted in snarling laughter at my expense.
I woke up some time ago thirsty and in the worst pain I thin
