Page 50 of Powerful

The damp wall pressed against my back has me wishing I’d been wearing a sweater when the king summoned me. Or perhaps my cardigan with the lace trim. Though I’d hate to wear it for the first time to the dungeons, with no one but the occasional Imperial to admire my handiwork.

I shut my eyes against the lone, flickering light beyond my bars and lean a throbbing temple against the stone wall. My stomach has been far chattier than anyone down here, growling with my growing hunger. I peek open an eye to stare at the stale bread tossed carelessly in the corner of my cell. After wincing at the mere thought of moving, I’m viciously biting my tongue as I shift closer. The shackles clamped round my ankles have my eyes stinging, skin tearing like sheer fabric. Rusty metal has rubbed my skin raw, leaving angry red blisters beneath.

Taking a shaky breath, I reach for the bread.

I know what I’ll see. I even squeeze my eyes shut to prolong the inevitable, to pretend this is all a nightmare that Pae will wake me up from. Because she always did. She always found a way to fight off fear, to be strong enough for the both of us. I would feel the brush of her fingers against the uneven bangs I made her cut for me,and the soothing touch was enough to drag me from my dreams. And then we would sit with my head on her shoulder, staring at the stars until they melted into morning.

But this is not the Fort. And there are no stars in sight or shoulders to rest my pounding head on. I am very much awake and opening my eyes and—

The sight of my fingers has me swallowing a sob. I wish they had bound my hands behind my back, if only so I couldn’t look at them.

I’m not sure why they did it. Or, better yet, why I’m down here in the first place.

I screamed when they began breaking my fingers, pleaded despite the pain, begged them to spare the one thing I loved to live for. My fingers are my craft, my comfort, my connection to the past I’ve managed to survive.

And then I cried.

It was a silent sort of mourning at first, tears slipping from behind squeezed eyelids. But my composure has never been anything to brag about. It wasn’t long before I was sobbing at the sound of my cracking bones and broken dreams.

It’s only when my outstretched hand grows blurrythat I realize I’m crying. Again. It seems that’s all l’ve done since the king ordered me thrown in here. Why is that again? I still haven’t puzzled that one out quite yet. Although, I have been rather occupied.

Sniffling, I strain towards the bread, sucking in a breath when the chains round my ankles grow taut. The pain of it all is too much. I’m not like Pae. I’m not used to hurting so heavily. I’m used to pricked fingers and sore hands, not an aching body and broken bones.

I huff and slump against the wall.

It’s no big deal, really. I’m used to being hungry. In fact, I don’t even want the stale bread.

My stomach protests. Very loudly.

I’m about to remind it that we’ve suffered longer without food, and to not be so dramatic, when the shadows begin speaking. How very odd.

‘Would ya keep it down over there? I’m tryin’ to sleep.’

I startle at the gruff voice and squint into the cell beside me. ‘I-I didn’t say anything.’ My own voice is hoarse, scratchy like wool.

‘Yeah,’ the man grumbles, ‘well, your stomach sure as hell has a lot to say.’

‘Yes,’ I sigh. ‘All of me is quite chatty.’ My eyes tracethe faint outline of a figure tucked into the corner connected to my cell, the corner closest to that dreadful bread. And he might just be able to reach it for me. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ I begin cheerily. ‘If you toss me that bread, my stomach will quiet down. So, we’ll both get what we want. I’ll eat, you’ll sleep.’

He seems to find this funny. Supposing, of course, that the noise coming from him is a laugh. ‘Oh, yeah? And how d’you know I won’t just take the bread for myself?’

‘Well, are you in here for being a thief?’

‘No. Worse.’

‘Then I’ll take my chances,’ I say lightly. ‘Sounds like you have no experience with thievery.’

He makes that noise again, the one I’m assuming is laughter. Then he’s shifting, sliding bony fingers between the bars in search of my bread. After managing to grab ahold of it, he tosses the loaf over to me with a gruff grunt. It rolls, coming to a stop when it collides with my leg.

I smile into the shadows. ‘See, you’re no thief. Thank you.’ I falter at the sight of my fingers. Twisted and broken and useless.

The pain is paralyzing.

I place a palm atop the loaf, wincing at the pressure. After a moment, I muster up the courage to press the bread between both hands and attempt to lift it towards my mouth. Tears slip down my cheeks. But I take a bite. And another. Each one stale and salty with my tears.

‘Whatcha do, kid?’ the voice asks, cutting through the sobs I’m choking down along with the bread.

‘I…’ A sniffle. ‘I’m a seamstress. I-I used to be a seamstress.’

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