man’s ear. Up ahead, the warden starts croaking at everyone to be quiet and demanding to know all the noise is about. The man next to Orrian lies down and starts groaning, clutching at his stomach. Seconds later the warden comes into view.

“What?” Warden Halden snaps.

“Please, he needs water,” Orrian begs, his pleading tone not betraying the falsity of the man’s discomfort. “Something’s wrong, he needs help.”

“IS THAT IT?!” the warden smacks the bars with a short baton furiously. “If he dies, he dies! Don’t you dare make me come down here again or I’ll help him along!”

The warden bats the cell bars once more for good measure before shuffling away grumbling, his head disappearing again below his shoulders.

I wait for several agonising minutes after hearing the gate slam shut again before I quietly enlighten Orrian.

“The boy with the broom, the one doing all the cleaning. I know him, he’s from Avlym,” I say.

“You think he might be able to help get us out of here,” Orrian finishes for me. “Do you really think he’d help us?”

I notice the silence, everyone is keen to hear this new plan.

“I don’t know. No one has seen him in years, and he was never particularly nice even before then,” I admit. “I know he recognised me earlier, and you said Breyden was giving you a few days, right? So, if we can’t get him to agree then we just go back to the original deal.”

Orrian spends a moment mulling this over, “Even if he could get us out of here, you saw how many guards there were out there, how would we even get out?”

“We go at night,” the answer already on the tip of my tongue, “once up the stairs there’s only one small courtyard between us and the gate. They’ll spot us, but we can be lost among the houses in minutes. From there we can lay low until we can figure a way out of the main gates,” the plan develops as it flies off my tongue, taking shape into tangible hope.

“What if the gates are closed, or your friend doesn’t help us and tells the warden?” Horas asks, his voice is curious not malicious, hoping that I have the answer to that too.

“Then we’ll be back in the same place we are now,” I answer.

“They might take away the offer, they might just kill us,” Horas points out.

“Yes, they might, but I think they’ll want to keep as many of us alive as they can. It helps them more if we bow to them, otherwise they’d have just killed us already,” I say, hoping that I’m right should our attempt fail.

“I’m not risking passing Breyden’s deadline so if we can’t persuade him soon then I’m taking the offer.” decides Orrian, looking at all tribespeople within sight to ensure that no one argues. “Ok. Let’s try it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

“You’re nearly there, just a little bit further,” my mother informs Orrian as he strains against the bars of the cell.

Orrian has wedged himself in the corner of the room between the stone sides and the iron rods. His face is pressed between the metal as his arm strains through the gap, reaching across the side of the stone wall between our cell and the adjacent one housing Astera and Tharrin.

A grimy and flaking leg bone extends his reach, separated from one of the many unfortunate bodies discarded in one of the back corners of our prison. A part of me wonders if whoever’s leg is currently being swung by the young king would be proud that they were having one last opportunity to thwart the people that had imprisoned them.

Orrian lunges and swings again, but from the lack of impact I know he missed his mark. He aims for the torch between our two cells, attempting to recreate a similar mess to the one that had last called for Damion to tend to it. We could think of no other way to attract the boy’s attention, the only other times he’s visited us has been at the side of the warden. Of course, we are going to need him alone if we hope to stand any chance of him helping us.

“It’s no use,” Orrian sighs, “I can’t reach it.”

I sit back with my head resting in my hands, Orrian was the tallest of us and if he couldn’t reach it then none of us would be able to.

“Let me try,” my mother calls from across the walkway.

“How?” asks Orrian.

“I’ve got a clear shot from here, I might be able to knock it off. Pass it over,” says my mother.

My mother’s cell opposite must have been recently cleaned before we all arrived. Considerably less straw litters the floor and no remnants of past prisoners share the space with her group.

Orrian squats on the tips of his toes, putting the bone on the floor. After checking that she’s ready, he flings the piece across the paved walkway. It bounces worryingly against the lines between the slabs but ends up skidding into my mother’s outstretched hands.

She rises and steadies herself, all eyes on her as she takes aim. Her elbow raises to be in line with her chest as the foul remnant nearly brushes her ear. For a second the whole tunnel’s silence seems to be repelled only by the rapid thumps of anticipation-fuelled hearts. The bone arcs high as it is released from its grip. It flips through the air before disappearing out of sight to our side.

Impact. The air is filled with soft cracks as old wood splinters against her throw. Something hard ricochets off the ground.

I move to press my cheek against our door near the far wall. Straining to see if the torch has been relieved of its position. Unfortunately, it’s base is still within the metal holder, although the top of the torch has caved in and I watch as a couple of embers rain below.

Orrian has already slid onto his bare chest, uncaring of the

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