"Prove it?" Vesper asked. "Prove what?"

"That I'm a mage," she said. "I don't know what's going on, but…I think I'm a very far ways from home." Purple eyes narrowed at Vesper. "And no, I'm not crazy."

"Course you aren't," Vesper lied. "Only a crazy person wouldn't go drink some water after a full day of lying on the ground, nearly dying in a cell. Only a crazy person wouldn't take care of herself."

Morgana's attention flicked to the tray of food, then back to Vesper. "Why do you even care? Do we know each other?"

Vesper paused.

Good question.

"Look," Vesper said dryly, shifting her grip as she leaned against iron bars. "I might not be the best person in the world, but that doesn't mean I wanna see some random lady rot away and die." She gestured angrily with her chin towards the exit. "He didn't give a shit how bad off you were." Her brow furrowed. "Still don't understand how you're sitting up and talking. Seriously. It wasn't looking good."

Morgana searched her face. Vesper suddenly doubted herself, seeing the calm, analytical look the woman leveled at her. As if she did know how she'd suddenly gotten better. Or at least, knew more than Vesper.

The woman was crazy, right? It was the only explanation. She didn't even know what Kingdom she was in.

"I think we need to get out of here," Morgana finally said.

Vesper blinked. "Huh?"

"We," Morgana said, "not I, because I might need help. I don't seem to be in the best of conditions."

"No, you aren't," Vesper said, eying, for the tenth time, the tray of food.

Morgana pursed her lips as she also looked at it. Finally, she unsteadily rose to her feet. This time, she didn't collapse back down—but it was a close call. In slow, shuffling motions, she managed to drag herself over to the tray. She grabbed the water—though not the food—and returned to her bed. She took a small sip, then clutched the cup in her lap.

"I can prove it," she repeated.

"That you're a mage?" Vesper asked, though she wasn't sure why she was entertaining the conversation. She guessed there wasn't much else going on.

"Yes," Morgana said, straightening her back. "I'm a mage of the fourth strata. The youngest to ever receive her mantle and earn the title of—" She hesitated, briefly, then changed her mind about completing whatever nonsense she'd been about to say. "I might not have mana on hand, but that doesn't mean I'm useless."

Mana on hand?

That was a weird way to phrase it. Mana was simply something a mage had, inherently speaking. Came with the class. Like a vibrating reservoir of power that sat inside one's chest, she'd heard it described.

A class this woman definitely, one hundred percent, did not have. Vesper had already checked while she'd been unconscious. Classed people could recognize other Classed. She was just a regular person.

Still.

Her curiosity had been piqued.

"Okay," Vesper said. "Go ahead."

A part of her winced. Maybe she shouldn't be encouraging the delusion. But she sounded so convinced. Though of course a crazy person would be convinced of their own delusions.

Regardless, Vesper waited.

"It'll drain me," Morgana said. "And I'm already barely staying upright. But blood can be used as mana, in a pinch."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"Hey, now," Vesper said, instantly alarmed. "Blood? Don't do anything stupid."

"I understand your reservations," Morgana said calmly. "I can interpret that there's cultural misunderstandings at play. When I say 'mage', it doesn't mean 'mage' as you know it. Perhaps. So I intuit. Nonetheless, even unequipped and in unfamiliar circumstances, I can escape an iron cage." She sniffed. "Any mage of the fourth strata could, even ones not trained in warmagic."

"Look," Vesper said, her concern rising. Obviously, she had no idea what this woman was going on about, but her claim of 'using blood as mana' incited some serious worries over what she had planned. "Why don't we relax, for a second?"

"Oh, calm down," Morgana said. "I'm just going to bite my finger. I'll be fine. But before I break these locks, I want your word that you'll help me."

"My word?" Vesper's concern evaporated, replaced by amusement. "What's the word of some girl you met in a jail cell matter? You serious?"

Morgana leveled a serious look her way. "I believe if you promise me, you'll keep it."

For some reason, it took Vesper several seconds to find her voice again.

The line had just been delivered so earnestly.

Did she really have that much faith in her?

Some random girl she found in jail?

Was she an idiot?

"Uh. Fine. Yeah. Sure," Vesper coughed, glancing away as heat rose on her cheeks.

Then she shook her head to clear it. Why had she even replied seriously? The woman was crazy. Beyond the silliness of being asked for a promise, the woman couldn't actually break out of her cell.

Right?

Morgana took another drink of water, then set the cup onto the floor and rose onto shaky legs. She approached the cell door and briefly inspected the lock on the other side. It wasn't anything special; just a small bit of metal. These cells weren't meant for holding anyone difficult. It wasn't even a proper jailhouse, just somewhere to keep them until they were moved to a more fortified location—or otherwise dealt with. Hence the six small cells, two guards, and only three prisoners.

Three. A little jolt went through Vesper, remembering that they weren't alone. Her attention flicked sideways, to the cell on the other corner of the space. The dark-haired man lay on his cot, fast asleep. Her and Morgana's conversation hadn't woken him.

"Yes, this shouldn't be difficult," Morgana mumbled. "Just need to break the lock, and it'll swing open." She chewed her lip. "But I can't be too loud," she said, glancing at the exit. "The guards could hear, right?"

"They're taking a hands-off approach," Vesper snorted. She'd had to holler and shout for close to half an hour before one had come to tell her to shut up, back when she'd tried to get help for Morgana.

"Hm. That's good, I suppose." She nodded to herself. "Then there's no point in delaying. Are you ready?"

"You could wait till you're feeling better."

"No. I don't trust this situation. I don't know why I'm here, or when I'll be taken away. For what crimes I've been accused. What my fate is." She shook her head. "It's smarter to escape as soon as I can. I'd rather be confused and lost while free than imprisoned. They could drag me off at any moment, at which point my situation would become vastly less tenable."

"If you say so." Vesper still wasn't sure why she was humoring the whole situation.

"I'll do mine, then yours," Morgana said. "You're ready?"

Vesper raised her eyebrows. "Not much prep I can do."

Morgana sat on the floor, cross-legged. Without ceremony, she placed the tip of her pointer finger in her mouth, then bit. She sucked in a little gasp of pain, and when she pulled her finger away, a bead of red was welling up.

Holding her other hand up, she began to draw on her palm with blood. Vesper couldn't actually see what, from over in her own cell. The seconds ticked by, the dark-haired woman studiously working away. Vesper remained quiet, finding the whole situation surreal.

Was she really expecting anything to happen? Against all logic, she kind of did. As insane as the woman sounded, she also seemed perfectly lucid. But again. All crazy people would be convinced of their own delusion. That was how craziness worked.

"There," Morgana said, completing whatever diagram she'd been drawing on her palm. "A simple spell. Should be strong enough to go through iron. I just hope it doesn't knock me out."

"Knock you out?"

"I'm drawing on my own vitality," Morgana said. "Using blood as mana. In my current condition, it could be too much. That's why I might need your help."

"Oh."

Morgana stood. She raised her palm, closed her eyes, and furrowed her brow. Vesper leaned forward against her own cage, growing tense as she waited in anticipation.

Surely this was all just a bout of fever-induced delusion, right?

She couldn't actually—?

The hair on the back of Vesper's neck rose, a sudden thrum of energy filling the air. Bright red lines—the color of blood—etched themselves in the space separating Morgana and the cell door, then impacted in some indescribable way, like something enormous hitting the ground, but with nothing physical actually happening.

Then the spell manifested. A gash of red material sliced forward, severing metal in a clean, perfect strike, disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared.

The lock clattered to the floor.

The cage door creaked open a half-inch, now simply hanging on a hinge, impeded by nothing.

"Hmph," Morgana said. "As I expected."

She swayed on her feet, and, like the lock a second prior, dropped to the ground.