Page 102 of Thunder's Reckoning
The light overhead shifted, gray to darker gray. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t matter. In here, time belonged to them.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Bare. Measured.
The scrape of a key in the lock. Precise. Ritual.
I braced myself.
The door opened.
A woman stepped inside. Older. Familiar in a way I couldn’t place. She wore pale linen, sleeves to her wrists, the hem brushing the floor. Her hair was pulled into a long braid. Her face was expressionless, her eyes glassy, dulled by obedience.
She didn’t look at me. Didn’t acknowledge me. She carried a tray—wood worn smooth with years of use—and set it down near the wall. A bowl of plain food. A metal cup of water. A folded cloth stained faintly pink. She placed it on a small wooden table with steady hands.
She turned to leave.
“Wait,” I rasped, my voice cracking, raw from whatever they’d used to keep me under. “Please.”
She paused, but didn’t turn.
“Where are the children?” My voice shook. “Where’s Miriam? Are they alive? Are they safe?”
Nothing.
Her head tilted slightly, just enough to show she’d heard. But her eyes stayed fixed on the door.
“Please,” I whispered, softer. “I won’t tell anyone. I just need to know.”
Her throat worked, one hard swallow. Her fingers twitched at her sides, clenching tight. Her shoulders rose as if she were about to speak, but no words came.
Her lips parted, trembled. For the briefest moment, hope flared in my chest.
Then she pressed her mouth shut, eyes glassing over again, and turned away.
The door shut.
The lock clicked back into place.
I sank to the floor, the tray untouched, hands shaking in my lap. The silence wrapped itself around me like a burial shroud.
I remembered how this worked.
Gabrial didn’t need chains or bruises to break you. He didn’t need blood. All he needed was silence, the right kind. The kind that erased you.
He trained everyone around you to act like you didn’t exist. To ignore your voice. To walk past you as though you’d already been buried.
He didn’t have to scream to destroy you.
He just had to make you invisible.
And I knew exactly how long a person could last before they started to believe it.
***
THE NEXT TIMEthe door opened, it wasn’t the same woman.
This one was younger—late twenties, maybe, though time blurred people in this place until age was impossible to pindown. Her steps were slow, almost reverent, like the stone floor itself might bite if she moved too quickly. She wore the same pale linen dress as the others, its hem frayed at the edges, sleeves hanging too long for her narrow frame. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a braid wound tight, the kind done in silence, with hands that knew nothing but obedience.
