Ella

Silver manacles burn into my wrists. The hot, slippery metal slides over my bones as I curl into myself, trying to shelter myself from the pain. Water drips onto my filthy hair. It’s ice cold, which is a welcome relief from the sweltering heat radiating through the room made of sweating pale stone.

There’s a single door and no windows, and I have no idea if I’m underground or high, high above in some tower. Everything from the brief moments of clarity I had after being pulled from the river to now are blurry. Flashes of being dragged by my hair through wet mud. The feeling of silver being...