We were shoved into a pen—little more than a fenced-off area in the mud—and the soldiers left us there, locking the gate behind them. The pen was a sprawling, dismal place, filled with the stench of unwashed bodies and the low murmur of despair. Fires burned in the distance, casting eerie shadows across the faces of the prisoners.
The night was a cold, suffocating shroud that clung to the pen like a bad omen. Tomorrow, we'll learn what they'll do with us. Decide our fates like gods toying with the lives of ants. Death? Slavery? A fight to the death for their entertainment? It didn't matter. The sentence would be swift, brutal, and without mercy. But the worst part was the waiting, the endless hours spent wrestling with the sickening dread of what would come next.
I sat beside my mother, my body tense, fists clenched so tightly my knuckles ached. My anger was a wildfire—uncontrolled, all-consuming, and utterly useless. Every bitter thought was a match struck in the darkness, every memory of weakness another log thrown on the flames. My mind was a battlefield, but there was no enemy to strike down, no sword to swing. Only cold, empty rage that I couldn't do anything with.
My mother watched me from the corner of her eye, weary but calm, like a general who's already seen a dozen battles today and knows there's another dozen waiting tomorrow. She used to have that fire, the wild spirit of a dungeon adventurer who laughed in the face of death and snatched victory from the jaws of monsters. Then she had me, and now the only monsters she fought were in her head—memories she'd never quite managed to bury. She'd joke that I'd ended her career, her biggest mistake. But we both knew the truth: she'd just needed a reason to stop before the dungeon finally swallowed her whole.
She let out a slow breath, one of those heavy sighs that felt like it could collapse a mountain, and turned to me with that all-too-familiar look. The one that said, 'I love you, but gods, you are exhausting.' "You're angry, Llyris. I can tell. But anger alone won't save you. It's a weapon that can cut you as deeply as it cuts your enemies."
Ah, yes, the old 'anger is a double-edged sword' speech. How many times had I heard that one? Almost as many times as I'd heard 'I'm disappointed, but I'm not surprised.' I'd have rolled my eyes if I wasn't so busy glaring.
"How can I not be angry?" I snapped, the bitterness bubbling up like a foul taste I couldn't spit out. "They've taken everything from us. Our home, Mr Freeman and everyone…gone. You!. How can you just… sit there and tell me to be calm?"
She didn't flinch. Why would she? My petty outburst was nothing compared to the nightmares she'd faced in her day. She'd stared down things that would turn a strong man's bowels to water, and my whining was about as threatening as a wet kitten. "I'm not telling you to be calm," she said, her voice as firm as a boot on my neck. "I'm telling you to be smart. Anger clouds your mind, makes you reckless. And we both know reckless is just a fancy way of saying dead. We're not here to win battles right now, Llyris. We're here to survive."
She leaned in closer, her eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver through me. "You remember what I taught you about the dungeons? About facing monsters bigger than you, stronger than you?"
Of course, we're here to survive. Because that's what we do, isn't it? Scrape by, clawing at the edges of life with bloody fingernails, all so we can live to see another sunrise that looks a lot like the last one. What a grand ambition.
She leaned in closer, her eyes boring into mine like she could see every stupid thought rattling around in my skull. "You remember what I taught you about the dungeons? About facing monsters bigger than you, stronger than you?"
Ah, the grand lessons of survival from the dungeon queen herself. Lessons that usually boiled down to 'don't do anything stupid'—which, let's be honest, was my specialty. I nodded anyway. I could recite her words in my sleep. Keep your back to the wall. Always know the way out. Don't provoke the beast if you're not prepared to kill it. All that practical wisdom, gift-wrapped in a nice, neat bundle of 'don't be an idiot.'
"Monsters don't kill because they're evil," she said, voice low, each word drawn out like she was pulling teeth. "They kill because it's what they do. And you don't fight them with anger. You fight them with knowledge, patience. You learn their patterns, find their weaknesses, and when they think they've got you figured out, that's when you strike. Not because you're pissed off, but because you're ready."
Of course, fight smarter, not harder. The mantra of cowards, cripples, and those too old to swing a sword like they used to. But she wasn't wrong. She was never wrong, which was frankly infuriating.
"We're all angry, Llyris," she said, voice softening, as if that was supposed to make any of this easier. "But anger is a storm that destroys. It doesn't build, it doesn't protect, and it sure as hell doesn't bring back what's lost."
I wanted to argue, to say something clever and cutting, but all I had was the taste of bile and the frustrating truth of her words. She'd been through hell and crawled out the other side, dragging me along with her, and here I was, all spit and fire, thinking I knew better. I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. Maybe anger wouldn't save us, but it was warm, familiar, and a hell of a lot easier than accepting that sometimes survival was the best you could hope for.
"Come rest," she said, pulling me closer, her voice soft, almost gentle, as if she could soothe away the nightmare that was our reality. I let her warmth wrap around me, tried to disappear into the small comfort of her arms, tried to imagine a world where we weren't penned in like livestock waiting for the slaughter. But the sounds of the camp wouldn't let me forget. The constant clatter of soldiers patrolling, boots crunching on gravel, laughter laced with cruelty, the scrape of knives on tin plates as they devoured their meals. War hounds barking viciously, snapping at anything that dared move too close. And, of course, the crying and sobbing from the cage—a sound that wormed its way under your skin and made a home there.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the noise to fade, but it never did. The world was relentless, and even as exhaustion dragged me under, sleep was a thin, restless thing, full of jagged edges and half-formed dreams. A blissful sleep would've been nice, if only the screams would stop. But there they were, echoing in my ears, tearing through the silence of the night like claws on raw flesh. I dreamed of nothing but shadows and the cold, gnawing sense of hopelessness—the kind that tells you, no matter how hard you fight, fate has already written you off.