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Angry tears were streaking with the sweat on my face by the time I got the first row of nails free. I slid the bar down in the gap, adjusted my angle, and pried again.

My arms shook with effort. The fire was up the wall and licking the ceiling across the small hut. The sounds of crackling and popping wood grew louder in my ears, and when the fire roared, I roared back.

I was losing control of my breaths, my heart beating furiously in my chest. I didn’t want to die. I could barely see through the tears as my body shook, in fear or effort—I wasn’t sure.

Gasping, I worked the board up little by little. The flames came close enough to scorch my leg. My pants caught fire, and I wasted too many moments beating the flames out with my palm. Pivoting, I tried to distance myself, tried to ignore the pain and focus on my only shot at saving my life. I tried like hell to remain calm.

When the next row of nails pulled free, I was able to pry the board up and hold it while pushing one arm and shoulder through, followed by my head. The wood rested heavy on my back when I released it and brought my other arm into the small space. It dug at my skin as I drug myself forward. My torso was mostly through when my hands found the cool ground. The relief I felt with the fire no longer heavy on my face and arms made me feel a desperate hope. I tried to follow with my hips and legs, but the board caught the top of my pants. I pulled with no give. I scrambled, frantic. Still, I was stuck. I felt the heat on my legs.

“No,” I growled. “I will not burn.”

I pushed back a bit, then tried again.

Still caught.

“Runehall!”

I pushed back again.

“You cannot have me!”

I shot forward, kicking and scrambling like a wild animal. I caught once more, my skin burning when the edge cut me, then broke free, collapsing onto the dirt. My chin struck the ground, and I fell into a crumpled heap, kicking my legs to straighten myself.

I was in the crawl space under the hut. Coughing, I shuffled away from the place where I’d broken through the floor and went to the far end of the small space, as far from the heart of the fire as I could.

It wasn’t far enough. Slowly, the boards overhead caught fire and began being eaten by the flames. When I reached the end of the crawl space, I met with the stone foundation. What would normally be cool was now warm and growing warmer.

I wasn’t out yet.

Desperate, my fingers clawed the stones, looking for a weak spot. If I could pull out even a few, I would have a chance at crumbling enough to work myself out.

The foundation was solid.

“Damn it,” I whispered, then coughed.

I drug my hands over the wall once more. Nothing gave. I tried to claw something out, anything. They were wedged in tightly. I drove my shoulder into the foundation until the pain was dizzying. It didn’t help.

I pressed my forehead to the warming stones and tried to gulp down air, which only made me cough. The fire drew closer behind me, and I wanted to cry. That was when I heard the voices. People outside, yelling for others.

I rallied.

“Help!” I shouted. “Here!”

My lungs spasmed, and I was back to coughing.

“Help,” I gasped, too quietly. “Help!”

But I didn’t think anyone could hear me over the roar of the fire and their own shouting.

“Assholes,” I said, my voice shaking. “You never hear me.

“Down here!” I tried to shout. “Down here!”

It was no use. No one heard my cries, not when everyone else was crying out and yelling, not when the fire was roaring in all our ears. I coughed, and wheezed, and no one heard that either.

I pressed my back into the stones and pressed my palms into my stinging eyes. I had to think. I had to make it out. I couldn’t die here, not like this, not by fire. Runehall wouldn’t have me, I wouldn’t let him.

“Where is she?”