The Blood Witch

The Dungeon

For the thousandth time tonight, I beat my chains against the cold stone wall of my cell. The iron manacles that bind my wrists are freshly wrought, pristine and whole despite the thrashing I've been giving them. I glare at them as they reflect the dancing torchlight back at me, desperation eating away in my stomach. My hands are too tightly sheathed in iron wire gloves to attempt to pick my way out, and I'm cautious now of spilling blood.

The cuts on my knuckles had reopened two days past and the sting of the metal entering my blood had been enough to empty my stomach across cell floor. Magic and iron had met like acid on flesh.

Confinement's not easy for a blood witch. Let alone one like me.

"Fuck," I hiss, half breaking my teeth as I bite at the pins fastening the cuffs. Deep within the bowels of Castle Avamere, it's impossible to tell how far the moon has sunk in the sky, but I feel my every second ticking away regardless. "Shit."

The guard stationed at the main entrance to the dungeon twitches in his sleep as I crack the chains against the cell wall again, but by now the sound of my shouts and attempts to break free have faded to background noise to him. When he wakes however, it will be to take me to the gallows. If I'm lucky.

The penalty for deserting the Pyrthian army is hanging, but for practicing blood magic? Consumption by the blessed Father's Eternal fucking Flame is the traditional sentence for anyone found to possess the Wicked Gifts. And I'm the only fool in the Three Kingdoms stupid enough to get caught doing both.

Although, if they do anything besides return me to the war front, I'll consider myself in the Mother's mercy.

I try to force myself to sit still and think practically about my chances of escape, but years of almost nightly attempts on my life have rendered my ability to remain motionless practically nonexistent. The brainwork side of things isn't too hot, either, but never has been.

I feel like one of the many Fret addicts crammed into the cells opposite, their restlessness sustained by the poison inside, shrieking at the slightest provocation. Their wails have kept me sleepless for nights on end. I can't look at them, but every time I close my eyes I see their faces. Their skin hangs loose, eyes shot with red... My hands curled fast, her lips turning blue, spittle coating my wrists as she writhes and-

You're not the only one they hurt.

"Fuck," I mutter again, tearing at my arms, not to break my chains but because the pain keeps me awake, alive. It keeps the memories out of reach.

At least it's not dark down here. I couldn't have handled it if it were dark.

I stare down at my enveloped hands, the mockery of jewellery that binds my magic still stinging me as it sizzles at my skin. I don't suppose I'll see them again. They keep witches bound until the end. The nineteen years worth of scars that tattoo my light brown skin already fading from my memory. The two weeks worth of blood still dried beneath my nails, only some of it mine.

The black smock the Sacred Flame priests dressed me in is stained a hundred shades of brown now, most pleasantly of all with day old flakes of my iron-sick vomit. At least I'll look a witch when they strap me to the pyre.

Think. There has to be a way out. We're too far underground for windows, the cells just iron barred boxes set into the mountainside. I've no more than a foot of movement with any given limb - they were too cautious chaining me to the wall- and as hard as I've tried my bonds aren't coming loose. The flaming mountaintop medallion around the guard's throat signals he's too religious to seduce, good riddance.

As much as I try, there's no chance until I'm unhooked from the wall of the cell. Not until the brothers and guards come to drag me to the executioners forum. Grab a sword if I'm lucky. Throw myself off the castle ramparts if I'm not. But I'm Sasha fucking Velwin and I refuse to be bested by a bunch of religious flamefuckers.