Shackles rang like temple bells. Four warriors knelt in a circle on the dusty ground in the cell across from mine, shaking their shackles as they chanted in prayer.

I wouldn't break it to them that the gods had never been concerned with our suffering, despite that their endless supplication woke me every time I dozed off.

"We have thirteen days left." Leif’s gruff voice managed to soften the hardness of the dirt floor. “Just thirteen before we’re sacrificed at the eclipse. No one wants to spend it listening to this."

He should leave them be. We were all terrified. I'd managed to numb myself to it while in this cell, like when I'd wash blood from my hands in the winter after a long battle. That was the most dangerous pain. The kind that was too damaging to even feel.

It was also when I fought best.

A draft crept in through tears in the thatched roof. I shivered. The jailhouse had cells lining both sides of a wide hallway. They’d separated our eighty warriors into groups of ten with guards posted in the hall. Except our cell was the only one with a guard inside. One who'd brought in a sharpening stone and a leather bag of weapons, and, yes, tended to swords while we sat only a few feet away. Our shackles were linked and anchored to the ground, so we couldn’t get close enough to steal his weapons. Still, daring.

Our best were in our cell: the chief, her commanders, and her most trusted warriors. The Prophet may have been afraid to leave us alone without someone close enough to hear our whispers.

The chief spoke with us now, using a code I hoped the guard wouldn't decipher. It sounded as if she only speculated about why demons would work with the Prophet and how the gods would react. About what the holy ones on the Mountain of the Gods would do. The Prophet hadn't used his own power against us, one of the only limitations the gods placed upon these leaders who had their divine powers. But he'd indirectly done so by having the demons attack. Had he made a pact to stop hunting them if they became his shadow army? The Prophet had made such a public spectacle of executing all the demons he found.

Throughout the conversation, the chief's index finger twitched with each word she wanted us to pay attention to.

No moves tonight. We needed to plan. Needed to learn why the demons helped the Prophet and how many more there were. Should not give in to despair.

Normally, Leif would have been in the thick of the conversation, but he only stared blankly at the ceiling. I reached for him and then stopped. No comfort could ease wounds like this. It would be better to focus on making my own plans.

The Prophet of the Valley was the most powerful in Skia Hellig. Though the fjellfolk of the mountain and the Flatlanders proclaimed their Prophets to be the greatest, all Helligeans feared Eskel the Ruthless more than any others. I only had one option. Finally break this damn curse. Even with my power restored, the battle against the Prophet and his people seemed impossible. But I was not allowing my people to die here.

When the instructors, thought of as holy ones by the common man, sealed my power, they forbade me from returning to the Mountain of the Gods where I had trained. To step foot there would mean certain death, they said. The gods largely left our world to its own devices, but my instructors claimed they would intervene in situations such as this. The moment I reached the Mountain of the Gods, it was possible they would strike me dead. I hated that place anyway and had no desire to return there. I'd been convinced I would find a way back to my power on my own.

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But the mountain always had a way of energizing me. Over the years, the inklings of my power had grown, so that even though I could not wield it, I had managed to use trace amounts. The mountain could give me the boost I needed to push through this curse. If the gods tried to kill me, I would simply have to survive. What other option was there? I didn't have time to waste trying to find my power. I had to return to my past and face the curse head on, even if it meant certain death. It would be better to die fighting for my people than at the hands of the Prophet in captivity.

After what I'd done back then, though, the instructors and the gods would surely do all they could to finish me. My banishment had been the only mercy they would extend. As long as I lived life as a normal warrior and kept all I knew secret, they would leave me be.

The Prophet of the Valley had defied the gods in his own way, though. It was possible the gods would allow me to fight for my people, considering the Prophet obviously had broken one of the only rules they bothered to give us. Prophets were not allowed to wield their power against those who had none. Were my sins really greater than his? But I wouldn't waste a moment hoping for the gods to care when they'd proven to me there was only one thing they actually cared about, and it definitely wasn't us. Not us, not truth, not right or wrong. They'd abandoned us with a power too great to handle and a world of deceit. No, they would continue to do nothing but watch the chaos they'd created. Nothing except maybe kill me for returning to the place forbidden to me.

This was on me. I had to find a way to escape. I had to survive the Mountain of the Gods and use its energy to reclaim what had been stolen. It would require careful planning. The Prophet had been clear about what would happen to our people if we acted up. Would the chief even accept me leaving? I'd kept my past a secret, and she'd honored that, made sure everyone else did, too, but this was different. She would never accept what I was. Who could?

Shackles clanked across the hall. I groaned.

"The gods heard you!" Leif roared. "The whole world heard you. They just don't care."

Enough of this. I kicked the bars so they rang like the shackles. "Stop upsetting Leif."

The guard in our cell pried his attention from his blades long enough to glance at me. The subtle smirk on his face made my lip twitch. He should be scared, not amused.

“Idiot,” I muttered. Though, I wondered if he was good in battle. He wore different clothes than the others, a light gray tunic that resembled what the Prophet's warriors wore beneath their armor. In fact, he could be the opportunity I needed. What better way to plan my escape than to elicit information from one of the Prophet's warriors? He could be valuable.

If his weapons were an indication, then I'd guess he was. The hilt of the sword he sharpened looked perfectly shaped for his hand. The blade flexed beneath a careful strike against the sharpening stone. That was no ordinary weapon. It must have been expensive and crafted for him. Yes, this man wasn’t merely a guard, but a warrior. A warrior who’d proven worthy of such an investment. Mining operations were not advanced enough yet to yield all the resources we needed. That steel was precious. I had to try to get to know him.

The sword wasn’t very large, though. I was one of the shorter women in Denstar and even I had a larger sword. Odd.

I studied his movements, trying to guess at his technique. Deft fingers gripped his weapon with the delicacy such a blade deserved. He was careful. And strong for having a slender, shorter weapon. Corded muscles wound up his long forearms, disappearing beneath rolled sleeves that were tight against his biceps.

I’d earned a second glance from him, which I figured was rare when he had a weapon in his hand. “Need something?” he asked.