Page 5 of The Chains You Defy

“Not that I have recognized one.”

“Then why, Uncle, did you demand I read this shit? I have so many more important things on my mind.”

“Because of a much-needed rest.”

“There’s no time for me to idle. You know exactly what I want, and it’s not a fucking break.”

“I was not talking about you. This entire damn world longs for one. From you.”

“Funny.”

“No, not at all. Fifty-two corpses were found last week alone, Dion.”

“That you’re aware of.”

“Lie down and read your book. After all, you paid dearly to possess these pages.”

“Fuck you.”

“Read.”

The tome connected with the door as I hurled the leather-clad volume at my retreating uncle. I’d been too slow. Again.

Swinging my legs off the bed, I glanced through the window and made up my mind. In the end, I’d always been atrocious at obeying when someone ordered me what to do and what to drop.

Number sixty-five was waiting. And if this was a dead end, as all the others before had been, at least I’d be making an example of my actions.

No, a diary by an unknown author wasn’t my concern.

The shrieks of the piece of chalk drilled into my eardrums as I dragged the stick over the uneven wall. An icy shiver ran down my spine, the fine hairs on my arms rose, and goosebumps broke out all over my skin—not only because my surroundings were so cold. Over the past few days, I’d gotten used to the glacial temperature, and I barely registered anymore how my muscles shivered and trembled.

With my index finger, I traced the eight lines hidden in a far corner of the tiny, damp room, one white stroke after the other.

My cage for the same number of days wasn’t the most pleasant place in Ivreia, to put it mildly. Butjust as I’d gotten accustomed to freezing, the heavy scent of mildew and misery in the air didn’t bother me anymore.

That I’d found the piece of chalk under the rickety cot I’d woken up on had been pure luck.

After everything I’d seen in the last few days, I considered myself fortunate to have a place to lie down that wasn’t on the stained floor. Of all the unpleasant locations I’d been to in my entire life, this hole was taking the top spot.

I had no idea where I was, only that I was a prisoner of Perran Feroy, the King of Merchants, whose son I’d killed in self-defense. His hospitality left a lot to be desired—I’d told my guards as much on the first day, and all I’d earned for my honesty had been a slap so hard that my ears had rung for hours.

I wish I could claim this had been the only time—that I’d become wiser, kept my lips sealed—but for every time I’d bitten down on my tongue, two other times my mouth had been faster than my brain. That the past months of travel and the perpetual company of soldiers had eroded some of the filters I’d placed upon myself when I’d been living in Credenta was painfully apparent to me.

My fingernail caught on the rough wall as I traced the line I’d drawn moments ago, but even when a part tore off and started to bleed, I didn’t so much as flinch. Its neighbor was missing altogether. Instead, there was a bloody, fleshy mess—the torture master had pulled the nail out yesterday. In the scope of everything else, I barely acknowledged the lingering pain.

Tracking the days with the help of the chalk was hard enough since the cell I’d been put in was windowless. My surroundings were dark, and the only light creepingin came from under the cracks of the door, but I didn’t mind. There wasn’t anything pleasant to look at anyway, and I was rather thankful I couldn’t dwell on analyzing the different kinds of mystery stains on the floor.

My eyes had gotten used to the constant twilight, at least so much that I was able to identify what was right in front of me, like my lines of chalk.

On the downside, every time the guards dragged me out of my cell for interrogation, the bright torchlight outside burned like fire in my vision. Weathering the almost blinding effect was the only option—at first, when they’d fetched me, I’d made the mistake of closing my eyes while walking, and one of my sadistic jailers had soon tripped me.

Carefully, I hid the piece of chalk in a small hole behind a tiny opening within my cot’s fabric, pushing my treasure in deep. If someone found and confiscated the item, I’d be heartbroken.

Tracking my days was the only thing keeping me sane, or so I told myself.

It was bad enough that the stick shortened a bit every day.

Soon, nothing would be left of the fragment anymore. Or maybe it would because I couldn’t imagine I would last much longer. Compared to me, the chalk had a better chance at survival, and the stick would surely outlive me.