“Three.” Her mouth forms the word, and suddenly, two of the guards drop, as though they crumpled under the weight of their own armor. Two of the others turn towards the collapsing guards, but one finds a crossbow bolt piercing his neck as Deora takes aim, and fires. I’m amazed that somebody with no depth perception can line up such a shot so well, and even more amazed when she rolls forward out of the window to dodge a throwing dagger the remaining guard launches at her, the blade whizzing past her head and cropping some hairs before flying out the window.

I do the only thing I can think of. I grab my dagger and charge at the nearest guard, one of the five still left standing. Three others are focused on me as well, while the fifth is still facing Deora, arm extended outward from throwing his own dagger.

As I pull my blade forth from my robe and lunge, metal meets metal, and mine miraculously wins the contest. It bites into flesh, and with a loud hissing noise, the guard recoils, then falls on the floor, writhing in pain. “Poison!” I hold my dagger out before me as one of the guards draws a club and swings it overhead.

With a heavy impact, I suddenly find myself without a dagger and feeling like my hand is broken. It might be. My dagger is on the ground, the guard is standing over me, and I’ve fallen backwards from that singular swing. Two more guards flank him, one on each side. The other two guards are fighting Deora, and seem to be losing, as she unleashes a flurry of swings. However, occasionally I see her slip up and whiff a swing that she throws too much weight into.

I push backwards as the guard with the club slams down and hits the ground next to where my leg was a second ago. He looks at me and rebalances himself, then steps forward and lifts a leg as though he’s going to stomp my chest. As his leg lifts, however, I kick up against the sole of his boot from the ground and push him off balance, sending him into one of his comrades. He’s caught, but they both tumble into the wall for a moment. This gives me a moment to regain my balance and get up, with the remaining guard helping the other two gain their own. I scramble to my feet, and look for the dagger. As I find its location, I see another person, a guard, reaching for it, then decide to kick it away as I move towards it. Phew. Better in nobody’s hands than one of theirs.

Deora takes a hit, across the face. She’s flung backwards and sent spinning, landing against the windowsill. I see blood flying off of her face after the hit. No time to think, only time to act. As I run towards her, the guard who was reaching for my dagger tackles me, dropping his shoulder and slamming me against the wall. I hear something crack, but the wall behind me remains solid. My vision blacks for a moment, and I collapse, slumping forward. Deora is leaning against the windowsill, winded, trying to catch her breath. I catch her eye one last time before everything goes black.

I wake up, my hands bound and chained above my head. My left hand is definitely broken from when I took the blow from that guard’s club, I can feel it’s swelling even without looking at it. Deora is nowhere to be seen, and this cell is small, from what I can tell. A sharp pain shoots up my side as I move to slightly adjust my position on the ground, and I can tell one or three of my ribs are broken.

“Wake up, shitheel.” A member of the royal guard takes off his helmet and looks down at me, through the bars of my cell. “Assault, treason, resisting arrest, conspiracy, collaboration with a terrorist organization… The list goes on. Don’t suppose you have anything to say for yourself?”

“You broke my gods-damned ribs.” I spit at the man. I’ve got nothing left at this point.

“Hmph. You’ll rot in here.” He turns around and walks away, leaving me in the cell.

Minutes pass, but they start to feel like years. The pain doesn’t seem to dwindle. In fact, it almost feels as though it grows worse with time. I continue to try and adjust and find a comfortable position, but every way I sit, arms above my head, grows uncomfortable after a few minutes. I resign myself to standing, hunched over, but on my feet, arms behind my back.

The sun outside of the small window I’ve been afforded begins to settle below the horizon, from what I can tell. I can’t see anything but the color of the sky, which fades from a light blue to a dim orange.

More time passes, like this. I start looking around the cell for any sort of refuge from my pain and mind. None to be found, however. All I can think of now is the speech which my father ought to be making right now.

My father. Maybe they succeeded. Maybe he’s dead.

No. I know deep down in my heart that he’s still alive right now. How unfortunate. Yet, despite everything… Despite the fact that I had even planned to kill him myself… The idea that I may not be able to say my piece, to have him tell me these things face to face… It disgusts me. I will be the one who takes his life.

A rattle wakes me from the thought. A prisoner, being pushed down the hall by guards. Round faced, cropped hair. One angry eye, short in stature. Deora. We make a moment of eye contact, and she’s ushered past my cell silently.

I suppose I must bide my time, then. Until members of the Ring come to save me. What else is there to do? Await trial? They’ll come. I’m not alone here.

Ouch. My broken rib, it still hurts after hours. Guards walk by and say nothing, do nothing but watch. A mockery.

I will not break. The only thing that will break are these chains, it is simply a matter of when.