Critic-Ishire.
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Lydia glanced back at the men, clearing her throat loudly. "Can you please give her something—" she began, intending to request food or medicine for Helena, but the witch quickly grabbed her arm, tugging her away with a sharp whisper, "Lydia!"
"Wait..." one of the scallywags called out, moving forward from behind the others. The women stood awkwardly, eyeing the group warily.
"Till we meet again!" the curious one shouted fondly, waving. But the leader scowled, his voice booming as he barked, "Do ye wish to be smoked?"
Helena yanked Lydia along, pulling her into the underbrush. Once they had put a safe distance between themselves and their captors, Helena finally released her grip, both of them panting from the sudden rush.
They exchanged a glance, then broke into a hurried pace, stumbling over roots and uneven ground as they fled the clearing. The scallywags had released them, but Lydia's brief sense of relief was replaced by suspicion, haunted by the mocking snickers that had followed them.
"You carry gold crits about you?" Helena asked lightly, the first trace of humor since their capture.
Lydia, still catching her breath, managed a small, proud smile. "I have pockets," she replied, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
As they hurried through the dense forest, Lydia's thoughts wandered to her now-ruined gown. Once pristine and shimmering, it was now a tattered, filthy mess, dirt-streaked and torn by thorns. The intricate lace adorning the bodice had long since been torn away during their escape, and the bodice itself had been discarded somewhere in the depths of the forest, leaving her feeling vulnerable in the chilling air.
Her hair, once styled into an elegant updo, had fallen into disarray. Strands of midnight black clung to her dirt-smeared face, and she could feel the tangles forming at the back of her head. Exhaustion weighed on her, dark circles under her eyes and every muscle in her body aching, yet she pressed on.
Helena fared little better. Her black hair, normally sleek, was now wild and matted, streaked with dirt. The strain of using her magic had taken its toll, deepening the shadows beneath her eyes. Her dress, once as immaculate as Lydia's, clung to her in tatters, the delicate sleeves ripped, the hem trailing through mud. Even her spirit, usually so resolute, was waning under the weight of exhaustion.
As they moved faster, the coolness of water in the air lifted their spirits slightly. The scent of fresh water gave them hope, a small sign of life in the hostile forest.
"This way," Lydia urged, her voice tight with determination. Helena followed closely, her eyes darting toward every shadow, every rustling leaf. The forest felt alive, hostile, watching their every move.
But they had barely covered any ground when the earth beneath their feet gave way.
Lydia screamed as she felt herself plummet, her hands grasping desperately at the air. Helena's startled gasp was cut short as they both tumbled down into darkness, the foul stench growing stronger the further they fell.
They hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud. The impact knocked the breath from Lydia's lungs, and for a moment, she lay still, dazed and disoriented. When she finally managed to sit up, the foul odor hit her full force. The pit they had fallen into was large and dark, the smell of rot and decay overwhelming.
Lydia's gown, already ruined, was now soaked in filth, clinging to her skin. She could feel the muck seeping into every inch of her clothing, the delicate fabric that once graced the ballrooms of Critic-Arley now reduced to rags. Her chin quivered as she fought back tears, her hands trembling as she wiped mud from her face.
Beside her, Helena was on her knees, her hair matted and tangled with grime. Tears cut through the filth on her face as she futilely tried to clean herself, her breath shallow with fear and exhaustion.
Lydia's heart clenched at the sight of her sister's distress. She reached out, grasping Helena's hand. "We need to escape this place," she whispered, her voice thick with dread. "There must be a way out."
Helena nodded, though her face was pale and her hands trembled. "They deceived us," she muttered, fury and fear mixing in her voice. "Those wretched creatures led us here. This is a troll's pit. They knew we would fall."
Lydia felt a surge of anger, clenching her teeth as the scallywags' mocking laughter echoed in her mind. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, refusing to let them win. "We will find a way out," she said, rising unsteadily to her feet. "There must be something—roots, a ledge, something to climb."
Helena wiped the tears from her face with a dirty hand and joined Lydia in scanning the walls of the pit, desperate for an escape. They searched frantically, their breaths quickening as the walls of the pit seemed to close in around them. The oppressive darkness grew thicker, the stench suffocating.
Then they heard it—a deep, guttural growl that sent chills down their spines. The ground vibrated with the sound of heavy footsteps, each thud echoing ominously through the pit.
Lydia's heart raced, her wide eyes meeting Helena's. The fear in her sister's gaze mirrored her own. The air grew thick with dread.
"What... what is that?" Lydia whispered, barely audible.
Helena's face drained of color, her eyes wide with terror. "The troll," she replied, her voice trembling. "It is coming."
Lydia's breath caught in her throat, the reality of their situation sinking in. They were trapped, surrounded by filth, and the monstrous troll was closing in on them. She could hear the scallywags' laughter in her mind, mocking them, and a wave of helplessness washed over her. How could they escape? How could they survive?
"What in God's name is this?" Lydia muttered in disbelief, her mind racing for a plan. They could not stand idly by, waiting to be crushed by the beast. They had to fight. They had to survive.
But as the heavy footsteps drew closer, her hope began to waver, and the oppressive darkness seemed to swallow them whole.