Hope

The corridor smells of damp stone and iron. The scent clings to me the way fear does—to skin, to breath, to memory. I balance the tray in my hands—bread gone stiff, a small bowl of broth, and a jug of water—and try to steady my steps. Every creak of my boots feels too loud, as though it might echo through the tower and give me away.

I tell myself this is routine. Just another visit. Just another night pretending that the chains and the blood and the screams are not real.

But tonight isn’t routine. Tonight, we make decisions.

I reach the iron door at the end of the...