Before the sun was even up the next morning, Elle stood before the guard at the royal castle’s dungeons as he put his worn book down onto the simple wooden table.

“Name?”

“Elle Kore,” Elle’s stomach twisted with knots as she watched the doorman study her. He sat at a plain desk with a few books and some lit candles as the sun was still down. A paper scroll placed before him, with a pot of ink and a feather pen, recorded the list of visitors. This guard was plainly dressed by comparison to the other Royal guards; he wore only some light armour—brown—with the royal insignia. He looked no older than mid-thirties, but like life had worn him down beyond his years. Behind the man was an open doorway leading to the dungeons, where Michy was.

The doorman noted her name on the paper and eyed the basket she held, rolling up his sleeves so that the tips of a thorny stem peeked out.

“What ye’ got there?”

“Just a coat and some fruit. I’m afraid she’ll be cold and hungry.” Elle did nothing to hide the tremble of her voice. She wanted the guard to know she was afraid; people often felt less need to be thorough when they felt they had the upper hand.

“Let me see here…” he rifled through the basket half-heartedly, not looking too closely. He didn’t even bother asking whom Elle was visiting. Confident that she was not smuggling weapons of any sort, he grunted his consent and returned to his book. Fruit and clothes weren’t a concern to him.

Elle carefully tread past the guard, clutching the basket closer to her chest. She stepped down the stairs toward the engulfing darkness, its floorboards creaking their welcome to her.

The muskiness of the tunnel penetrated her nostrils while the wooden stairs wobbled threateningly with each step. Though the torches along the walls were mostly still lit, their flickering light did nothing to ease the discomfort that started crawling up from her stomach into her chest.

As she took the last step, she let out a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. The reality of it all hit her as Elle took in the rows of cells lined with dirty hay. Some cells held a pale prisoner within, but none of them bothered to even look her way, whether they were lying on the bed of hay or sitting in a corner, quiet and despondent.

Elle took care to keep her footsteps quiet as she made her way down the rows of cells. Though she clearly was in no danger from the other prisoners, she still felt the need to avoid their attention. She pressed herself against the wall, keeping as far from the other cells as possible. The cold and the damp seeped into her bones, as surely as the fear crept up her spine.

But she had to stay strong. Elle steadied her breath and refused to look at the other pale and hopeless prisoners. Michy would not become like them. Michy could not become like them.

Speeding up, Elle finally approached a cell with a familiar body huddled up in a corner.

“Miche,” Elle whispered.

Michy's head snapped up. She gasped, jumped to her feet, and crossed the jail floor. Elle stuck her arms between the bars as far as she could and the two hugged, separated by cold steel.

“Elle,” Michy gasped through tears.

They stood like that for moments, just holding each other tightly. Elle hated the metal keeping them apart.

“Miche, listen to me,” dread clutched and closed upon Elle’s lungs when her best friend’s blue eyes searched her face. Those bright blues had been darkened by despair after just one day in these damp dungeons.

“I’m going to get you out,” the words tumbled out of Elle, quiet and hushed.

“Elle.”

“No, listen. I will get you out. I’m not going to let you rot in here and be executed for something you didn’t do,” Elle passed her the bundle of clothes and the apples. “Stay warm and eat. You’ll need it.”

“Elle, what would--"

“Don’t worry about that part. Just stay safe. I’ll be back tomorrow,” she murmured before taking a step back. “I will save you,” she mouthed.

Elle took one last look at her best friend—her only family—and she knew it was the right thing to do. Elle smiled, but couldn’t keep the melancholy at bay. She picked up the candle and turned back to the stairs. Elle let the sadness seep into her face when she greeted the guard again.

“I’m allowed to bring her some more tomorrow, right? She doesn’t have to be cold and also starved, right?” she couldn’t meet the guard’s eyes and focused on the lit candle on his table instead. Its flame was small and bright—like the flame of determination burning in her chest.

“Sure, whatever,” he waved her off without another glance.

Ellen kept her head down all the way until she was back home. Her mind raced.

First, she dug out the biggest basket she could find, followed by a small blanket. She wouldn’t have to worry about Miche's clothes anymore, so she had space for the rest of the apples they had picked the day before—before everything had happened. Elle tucked the blanket in over the apples again and again until she was satisfied with how it looked.

She pulled her hood up and left with the basket. She didn’t feel the air prick her skin like a thousand little needles, nor did she feel the crunch of leaves beneath her feet as summer sighed, ready to rest and let autumn take over. She barely even felt the hard wood against her knuckles as she demanded an audience with Jeremy, the local blacksmith’s apprentice.

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Jeremy didn’t live far from Miche and Elle, and he had been enamoured with Miche since the moment he’d laid eyes on her when they were children at the Poor House.

“What do you want?” asked a gruff voice belonging to an equally gruff young man. He was big and much taller than Elle, but without being bulky. He might have been an imposing presence to a stranger, but Elle had known him all her life. And though he was sweet on Miche, Elle hadn’t won him over in the years they’d known each other.

“I need to come in,” Elle murmured, hoping that he would hear her despite his tall stature, but that no one else would.

“Why?” His eyes still blurry from sleep, he didn’t catch her piercing stare. “The sun isn’t even up yet and it’s a weekend. Why are you here so early?” He squinted and craned his neck. “Where’s Michy?”

“Let me in, and I’ll tell you.”

He stared.

“It’s about Miche,” Elle checked around to make sure no one was on the roads and finally relented, rushing the words.

His thick brows furrowed, but he sighed and stepped away from the doorframe to let her in, and went to light a candle and pour himself a glass of water.

Elle wasted no time following him into the little hut of a home, making sure to close the door gently behind her so as not to attract attention. Jeremy lived by himself and his home was small, but neat. A few small windows let the light in, and for once, she appreciated a small window. It felt more private. She took a seat at the small wooden table placed for dining. Though his home wasn’t extravagant, it was perfect for starting a family, Elle thought idly. The family neither she, nor he, nor Michy had ever experienced.

She watched his back, lean from labour, as he shuffled around his kitchen. The hint of a stem peeked out from the short sleeve of his shirt.

“Water?” he offered because, though he was raised without parents, he was raised with manners. Elle knew he wasn’t actually asking.

Jeremy was the quiet type. They’d been at the Poor House together—the three of them. He had taken to Michy's happy glow, just as Elle had. But Elle and Jeremy never quite clicked. Maybe because they were both prickly; where she was loud and outspoken, he was quiet and out of the way. His brown hair was shaggy, but well kept, just as his hands were worn, but strong, as he handed her a glass even though she had shaken her head at his request.

“Miche has been accused of helping the Ellyrians and they’ve taken her to the cells.” Elle held the glass, not feeling the condensation as it dripped onto her hands. She didn’t have to look at him to know he had frozen in place.

“I’m going to break her out tomorrow night, but I need your help. You don’t have to be there—just give me the supplies I need.”

She dared to glance at him. His face was ashen white, but his chest rose faster with every breath. Finally, he pulled out a seat and sat across from her. Elle grimaced at the scrape of the chair leg, as though the intrusive sound would alert the Royal guard of what she was about to do.

“And what would you do if you guys do break out?”

“I’m sorry, Jeremy,” she cast him a pained look. “We have to disappear. We can’t stay here anymore. You know what happens when someone is accused of being a supporter.” Certain death. She didn’t have to say those words out loud. King Apollo did not take kindly to traitors; anyone who was even slightly suspected of being an ally to Ellyria was executed before the week was up. Elle's own throat threatened to tighten at the thought of what was to come—everyone knew how it worked. Tonight, Royal guards would come and evict her; they always evicted the family 24 hours after the initial arrest. It didn't matter that only one person was suspected of betrayal. King Apollo punished the whole family by taking their homes.

“What happens if you fail?”

“We won’t.”

“But what happens if you do?”

“We won’t!” Elle slammed her glass down. Water splashed onto the table, unnoticed by both. “Jeremy, we can't fail, don’t you understand that!”

“She might die if you get caught!” His fist clenched around his own mug, his knuckles whitening.

“She’ll die for sure if I don’t try!” Elle stood up, her chair scraped hard, its seat hitting the back of her knees. “You can help me and give her a chance or you can sit there and let her die. Which is it? Because I know what I’ll be doing tomorrow night. Will you give me what I need to ensure our success?”

The silence hung in the air like a blanket suffocating them both as she stared down at him.

“What do you need from me?” he finally asked. Elle almost collapsed from relief. Her entire plan was contingent upon his help.

“You don’t need to come,” she shifted on the spot, “but I do need some explosives.”

His head snapped up. “Explosives?”

“Yes. I’m going to literally blast our way out.”

“Are you kidding me?” His voice rose with every word, but Elle remained unflinching. “You’re going to blast your way out of Apollo’s dungeons? With all those Royal guards there? With the King and his Generals there?”

“Lower your voice, Jeremy,” Elle was beginning to lose patience. “Are you going to lose it with every new piece of information I give you?” she huffed. “I have no choice. This is Michy. Our Michy. Our Michy who was there for you when you got picked on by those stupid bullies. Our Michy who helped you onto your feet when we left the Poor Kids house. Our Michy who helped you get this job,” she hissed.

Jeremy deflated. “You’re right,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to come with me tomorrow night. No one would blame you. Miche certainly wouldn’t,” Elle looked right into Jeremy’s eyes. “You don’t need to come. Do you understand me?”

He nodded.

“But what I do need from you, Jer, is the explosives.” She called him by the nickname Michy used, and he noticed it. It was a mean move, but she had to make sure he was in, and that he wouldn’t freak out again.

“I just need enough to blast through her cell’s bars, and the back wall. I was just there earlier, so I can give you a description of how thick the bars are, but I don’t know about the wall—we’ll just have to do our best and hope, but—”

“I helped reinforce those cells,” he finally said, raising his head. “I know exactly how much you’ll need. I can get you what you need.” He nodded toward the back of his home, indicating for Elle to follow.

“You have explosives just sitting around here?” Though his cabin was small and cozy, he had a large shed in the back, nestled behind some anvils and other tools of the trade.

“They’re not exactly explosives yet. Metalworking requires a lot of heat, which these provide,” he showed her a few bundles of tubes tied together. “If you just do this,” he untied them, turned a few around, added some smaller sticks with odd bits on the end, “then it becomes an explosive.”

Elle turned the bundle of tubes and sticks in her hand gingerly. She’d never seen such a contraption before. “How does it work?”

“You see the long white bit sticking out there? Light a match to it and it will go up the wick until it reaches the explosive bits here.”

“How far will the explosion go, though? I don’t want to hurt Michy.”

“If she stays by the bars, she should be fine,” he answered while putting together more explosive bundles.

“But it will be loud, yes?”

He gave her a weird look. “Yes, of course.”

“We have to have two explosions go off at one. Once the guards hear the bang, they’ll come running. We won’t have time for a second explosive. The bars and the walls have to come down at once, which means Michy won’t have enough space to safely hide from the impact.”

“That’s why I’m going with you. I won’t need explosives to open the bars.”

Jeremy had a strange look on his face—the kind of look people got when they were determined to do something they knew wouldn’t end well. The kind of look that people got when they had to do something they knew was right, even if it meant losing everything they ever knew.

“I’ll leave my basket here. Fill it with what you think is enough. I’ll be back tonight.”