"Give it up," the man said from across the cell. His voice was flatter now, more serious. "No one escapes this place."
Ian scoffed, eyes still on the ceiling. "Then they weren’t trying hard enough."
"No," the man replied, "they tried. Trust me. I’ve been here long enough to watch them all fail. Some clever ones too. All it got them was a quicker trip to the chopping block."
Ian sat up, wiping his hand over his face. "Good for them," he muttered. "But my story’s gonna end different."
The man gave a small laugh, more like a breath through his nose. "You’re all the same at first. Loud. Defiant. Then reality sets in."
Ian didn’t answer...He was already thinking.
Then, without warning, he stood and picked up the rusted old bucket in the corner. He walked to the bars and started banging it hard against the cell door loudly, echoing, sharp clangs that rang through the dungeon like a bell.
"What the hell are you doing?" the man hissed.
Ian didn’t answer. Just kept slamming the bucket. Once. Twice. Three times. Read complete versıon only at novel·fire·net
Footsteps thundered down the corridor seconds later.
A guard appeared at the far end, his armor clanking, face already twisted in a scowl. "What in the queen’s name is this racket?!"
Ian grinned faintly, wiped the sweat from his brow. "I’m hungry."
The guard stalked closer. "You got your food."
"Wasn’t enough," Ian said. "I’m still starving. I want more."
The guard stopped right at the bars. His lip curled.
"This isn’t a tavern, you red-headed filth."
Ian didn’t back down. "Still hungry."
The guard’s face darkened. "I said that’s all you’re getting."
He reached through the bars, grabbed Ian by the collar and yanked him forward hard. Then...crack! A fist to the nose.
Pain exploded in Ian’s face. He gasped, head snapping back. Blood started flowing instantly.
Another punch followed, quicker this time. Right to the same spot. Ian dropped to his knees, clutching his face.
The guard spat near him. "That enough for your appetite?" Then he turned, muttering curses, and stormed off.
Across the cell, the man exhaled slowly."...You’re insane."
Ian, still clutching his bleeding nose, gave a small smile through the pain....exactly what he wanted.
He sat still for a while, head lowered, blood dripping from his nose onto the dirty floor. His breathing slowed. The pain dulled. But his fingers? His fingers gripped something tightly in his palm...The key.
He had snagged it off the guard’s belt in the chaos. Just a quick slip of hand when the man yanked him forward. He wasn’t a thief. Never had nimble fingers like that. But he was sharp. He paid attention. And when opportunity cracked open even a little...he took it.
Now was the time, he moved fast.
Kept his body low, breath even, and made for the cell door. Slid the key into the rusted lock. For a second, it stuck, panic bubbled, but then click... it turned.
The heavy metal door creaked open, loud enough to make his heart seize, but not enough to draw immediate attention.
He stepped out into the dim corridor, bare feet silent on the stone. Before moving farther, he turned back to the opposite cell. The stranger was sitting in the shadows still, eyes barely catching the torchlight.
"You coming or what?" Ian whispered. The man didn’t move.
"You’re mad," he said. "They’ll catch you before you hit the outer gates."
"Then I’ll die trying," Ian replied. The stranger leaned back, silent again. "I prefer not to die at all."
Ian stared at him a moment, then gave a small shake of his head. "Suit yourself."
Then he turned away with the key tucked tight in his grip, blood still drying on his upper lip, he vanished into the hallway’s gloom.
Ian slipped through the stone hallway, his feet moved fast, his ears active as well— twitching at every sound.
He reached a heavy wooden door, slid the key in, and twisted. It opened. He slipped through it like smoke and pulled it shut behind him just as boots clattered in the corridor behind him. He held his breath.
The voices were close. Too close. One of them muttered something about the queen’s orders. Another chuckled about prisoners dying soon anyway.
Ian’s heart thudded in his throat.
He stayed frozen, pressed to the wall in the dark, barely breathing as the guards passed. Then silence, only then did he move.
Down another hallway. Then another. He was going off instinct now. Just picking paths that looked... less guarded. Less bright. Less risky. His mind was on one thing...get out. Make it to the woods. Back to the tree. Back home.
He turned a corner, and stopped. Up ahead, through a small archway, he saw an outer corridor, one that opened up into the night.
Freedom in sight...but his stomach sank.
The path to it was swarming with guards. At least a dozen. Some stood around, others patrolled slowly in groups. No way through without being seen.
He backed away slowly, pulse racing.
"Think, Ian. Think!" He muttered softly.
Then it hit him....movies. He’d seen it before. Every prison break, every heist. If they couldn’t go through the guards, they distracted them.
He scanned the hallway. That was when he saw the torch mounted in the iron sconce... and the long hanging banners that decorated the stone walls.
Thin, silk-like fabric. Gold-trimmed. Some kind of royal insignia woven into them. Flammable. Ian grabbed the torch.
His breath caught as he moved it toward the nearest banner. Just one spark. That’s all he needed.
If this worked, he’d have a chance...If not... well, he was dead anyway.