As the loud clang of the morning bell reverberates through the cell, I jolt awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight on my lap. The sight of dark hair spread across my thighs brings the memories of the previous night flooding back, and I gently nudge Fleya awake.
"Come on, we have to get up," I urge her, trying to maintain a balance between gentleness and urgency. we can't afford to waste any time this morning.
"W...where are we going?" She stumbles to her feet, her eyes round with bewilderment.
I can't help but feel a pang of sympathy as I rise to my feet and look at her. The innocent purity shining in her eyes is a rarity these days, especially in a place like this. The thought of it being snuffed out, which is inevitable if she stays here, sends a jolt of pain through my heart. Once you're within these walls, there's no escape.
"We have work to do. You should use the bathroom first," I suggest, pointing towards the rusty bucket that serves as our latrine. "Hover over it, you don't want to catch a disease."
"Do I have to?" Fleya grimaces in disgust at the sight of the foul bucket.
"Do you have an alternative?" I ask her sharply, becoming agitated as the seconds go by. At my words, her face falls. "Now hurry up. Trust me when I say you don't want to be late."
Turning away, I give her a semblance of privacy. I, too, need to relieve myself, but doing so will only push our limited time further. I would rather bargain for a favour with a guard later on than risk being late. The thought of the punishment for tardiness is something I don't want to dwell on, although I can well imagine the harsh consequences based on past ones.
As the cell door swings open, Fleya's small hand slips into mine, her grip surprisingly tight. I squeeze back, wishing I could offer more comfort. There are no words that can ease the pain of this place, as I know all too well from my own experience. All I can do is be there for her, a steadfast presence in the face of the horrors yet to come.
The clanging echo of the cell doors opening signals the beginning of our workday. I heave a sigh of relief that we managed to make good time, gripping Fleya's small hand a bit tighter, guiding her towards the exit. I can feel her trembling, her uncertainty palpable.
"Remember to do as the guards command, don't argue," I caution her, trying to instill the gravity of the situation without frightening her further. "The work is tough, but you'll manage. Don't complain."
Glancing back, I study Fleya's expression to see if my advice sinks in. Her furrowed brow indicates her comprehension, her eyes brimming with wary attention as she scans the throng of inmates trudging past us. Her lack of trust in the other prisoners reassures me, a flicker of relief in the harsh reality of our surroundings. Despite our shared predicament, some prisoners would not hesitate to betray others for an extra piece of bread.
As we approach the line funneling into the work tunnel, Fleya presses herself even closer to me, her frail body trying to distance itself from the inmate behind her. I squeeze her hand again in a bid to soothe her. I feel a cold draft snake its way up my spine, my weight loss leaving me more susceptible to the chill. The slight warmth Fleya emits does little to combat the cold seeping into my bones.
The moment the line begins to shuffle forward, Fleya's grip tightens. Each passing second propels us closer to the entrance, where Luthier stands, overseeing the workers' ingress. A cold shudder passes through me at the sight of him. He's never been one of my favorite guards, always finding a way to make my life even more miserable.
"A little birdy told me you got a new cellmate," Luthier smirks as we approach, causing my blood to run colder at his interest in Fleya. He cranes his neck to get a better look at the terrified girl hiding behind me, a predatory glint flickering in his eyes. "I'm surprised you've taken a liking to her. You never seemed to care for your previous cellmates."
Luthier detaches himself from the wall, prowling around us in a disturbingly predatory fashion. My grip on Fleya's hand becomes a vice, silently begging the old gods to hurry this macabre interaction along.
"She's quite a pretty thing, isn't she? Young too." Luthier's words are almost a purr, my breath hitching as a wave of dread sinks into my stomach. He halts before me, leaning in, and I find myself reluctantly meeting his gaze as he closes the distance between us.
Frozen in place, I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable. He reaches out to tilt my chin upwards, forcing me to look deeper into his eyes. "Though none compare to the sweet nectar that is you."
Without warning, his lips are on mine, a harsh invasion of wine and smoke, a brutal trespass that I do not reciprocate. My eyes remain open, staring blankly at him as he forces the unwanted kiss upon me. When he finally pulls away, the taste of him lingers, a haunting aftertaste.
"Maybe I'll come by later. We could have some fun." His words sting more than any physical blow could, and I have to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from lashing out in response. The taste of copper fills my mouth, but I hold back, knowing a reaction is exactly what he wants.
The moment we're finally allowed through the gate, relief floods through me. I had been terrified he would take Fleya away from me on the spot, disappearing with her forever into the grim labyrinth of the prison. Without a word, I pull her toward the work area, her hand still clasped firmly in mine. She remains silent, mercifully not asking about what just occurred. I wouldn't have had the words to explain anyway.
"You need to do as I do and avoid causing trouble." I release her hand and face her, the urgency of my words reflected in my gaze. "Do you understand?"
"I do," She whispers, with a depth of understanding in her eyes that shatters my heart.