It was times like this that Daana regretted swearing off magic for good. Yes, there had been legitimate reasons for doing so. Reasons such as her diminishing sense of control, the unintended, often disastrous consequences that immediately followed, and, most importantly, that the use of magic seemed to be directly correlated with the spreading darkness within her veins. But so what? If anything, her present situation called for drastic measures. Unfortunately, without her armlets and with no immediate way to awaken the magic burrowed inside her, Daana was forced to rely on more practical means in order to escape.

Dragging her feet into the carpet, however, proved both ineffective and impractical. No matter how she struggled, Daana was unable to slow their swift progress. The third henchman reached the exit first and held the door for them. A stark channel of sunlight poured in from outside, temporarily obstructing her vision. The same could not be said for her escorts, who carried on without missing a beat.

Uncle Geralt stopped at the doorway and waved the procession down a series of worn stone steps. There was an unmarked carriage awaiting them in the empty courtyard below, its door already swung open in preparation for a swift departure. “Oh, and do be sure to remember the blindfold,” Uncle called after them. “It would be a shame to rob my dear niece of the full dungeon experience.”

Well shit. He wasn’t playing around anymore, was he? She’d meant to push him over the edge, of course. She simply hadn’t expected it to be this easy. After all, Uncle Geralt had always been a fickle fiddle to play. After so many years of being on top of his game, had he finally lost his touch? A troubling thought settled over Daana’s thoughts. What if he hadn’t? What if he’d somehow anticipated her move and was now stringing her along as a means to fuck with her in return?

Don’t let him get into your head!

Right. Stick to the plan. Daana willed her limbs to go limp, causing the guards to nearly drop her, as she revisited her mental checklist. Break into the capital, check. Confront uncle and piss him off, check and check. Make it look convincing. Ah, yes, that’s where she was. By all accounts, she was nailing it so far. It probably helped that the fear she was supposed to be feigning was one hundred percent authentic. All that was missing now was a desperate escape attempt to really drive it all home.

Springing back to her feet, Daana kicked the guard to her left in the back of the knee. He crumpled to the ground with a surprised yelp. Wrenching free of her other escort, Daana spun around to find the third henchman hurtling towards her. She dodged him, inadvertently tripping over the fallen body of the first, and struck the cobblestones, unable to use her hands to cushion her fall.

“Ugh,” she groaned, rolling stiffly onto her side. While she had known the escape would fail, she hadn’t meant for it to fail so spectacularly. Or quickly, for that matter. For the gods’ sakes, she’d managed to roll closer to the damn carriage!

A slow clap coming from the top of the steps alerted her that her uncle was still present and, regretfully, had borne witness to her blundered escape. “Well done, Daana. You always were full of surprises. Now be a dear and move this along quickly. I have a nation to run.”

The obligatory ‘fuck you’ died on Daana’s tongue as a dark hood was pulled over her head. She continued to fight every step of the way until one very exasperated henchman abandoned all sense of propriety and swung her over his shoulder. Muttering under his breath, he clambered into the back of the awaiting carriage with her kicking for all she was worth. Alas, her efforts were for naught. He set her onto the wooden bench with an ungentle slam that knocked the remaining air from her lungs.

The carriage frame rocked beneath her as the second guard climbed inside and took a seat across from them. The third jumped in next but was apparently prevented from sitting alongside the second.

“On the other side of the prisoner,” guard number two ordered.

“There’s barely any room!” number three protested.

“She’s already given half the palace force the slip. We’re not taking any chances. One on either side of her.”

“...But the smell.”

“Oh please,” she muttered. “I can still smell the whore on your breath with a bag over my head.”

“You, shut up. And you, sit.”

With a reluctant groan, guard number three made room by shoving Daana further down the wooden bench seat until she was pressed firmly against the body of the first.

Uncle’s voice rang out, fainter than before thanks to the stupid hood. Evidently he had abandoned his post at the top of the stairs in order to see her off. How generous of him. It was a shame she couldn’t reward his kindness with a nice headbutt to the nose. “This pains me as much as it does you, Daana,” Uncle Geralt said. “I do hope that you learn from this and come around on your own. Until that time, enjoy your stay. I assure you, you will be in the very best of hands.”

Without further adieu, the door slammed shut and the carriage lurched forward, picking up speed as it barreled down the uneven cobblestone road. It had been ages since Daana had last ridden in a carriage. She hadn’t remembered it being quite this uncomfortable. She ground her back molars as her back side slammed against the un-cushioned bench seat as the driver seemingly went out of his way to drive over every bump and pothole in the city.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Sandwiched between the two larger guards, there wasn’t much room for her to navigate. It didn’t stop her from trying, of course. Daana squirmed in her seat, attempting to work her wrists free of the heavy iron manacles keeping them firmly fastened behind her back. She succeeded only in rubbing the skin on her wrists raw against the unyielding metal–that and earning a firm elbow to the ribs from the guard on her left.

“Sit still,” he grunted.

There was a time in her life that such rough handed treatment would have frightened her into an obedient stupor, but that was Old Daana. And Old Daana would not even recognize the version of her that now sat shackled on the bench, headed for a dungeon, all while running poorly thought-out revenge plots through her head. Using the toe of her boot, Daana searched the floor for guard number one’s foot. Finding what she sought, she lifted her boot and brought her heel down upon it with as much force as she could muster.

She was rewarded with a cry of pain that was almost immediately followed up by a second elbow to the ribs. This one was noticeably harder than the last.

So much so, it caused Daana to double over, barely able to breathe as hot tears sprang from her eyes and trickled down her face. An unnerving laugh filled the cramped carriage. What was even more unnerving was the fact that it was coming from her. Oh dear. After months of being stretched thin, her mind had finally snapped.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Guard number three struck her across the back of the head. “Sit still and shut up!”

With each gasping laugh, the coarse fabric of the hood pressed further into her mouth, threatening to cut off her already dwindling air. Daana closed her eyes and focused on slowing the rampant drum of her heartbeat as a maniacal smile pulled across her mouth. “What was that? A love tap?”

“Muzzle it or I’ll give you another one.”

As her ability to defend herself had steadily improved over the course of the past four months, so too had her aptitude for shit talk. Unfortunately, the latter was not always to her benefit. “How about you unchain me and I show you what a real hit feels like?”

Oh gods. That sounded a little too much Rali for Daana’s comfort. Had she really fallen that far? Considering she was sitting shackled in an unmarked carriage destined for a secret dungeon, the answer was equally as uncomfortable. Pushing the thought from her mind, she put on her best smile in spite of the hood and said, “We could take turns if you really want.”

She felt the guard’s body shift as he twisted his torso around, winding up for what would surely be a painful swing. The officer across from them was quick to put a stop to it, “Bronson, no! Leave it.”

And that was the last of any sort of conversation Daana was able to coax out of her escorts. Not for a lack of trying. Alas, no matter what tactics she used, the three guards remained tightlipped and unyielding.

With her vision trapped in perpetual darkness, she had no way of keeping track of how long the carriage bumped along the cobbled road. Eventually, the terrain beneath the clackity wooden wheels shifted from stone to dirt. She assumed this meant they were on the outskirts of the capital, perhaps beyond the city wall itself. After a while the cart took an unexpected turn and Daana squeezed further against the shoulder of the guard on her left.

She didn’t have to listen to his unintelligible grumblings for very long. The guard had barely pushed her back into position when the carriage rolled to a gentle stop. Once more, she heard the creak of a poorly oiled carriage door seconds before she was being half-pulled, half-pushed from the bench seat and onto the awaiting ground below.

She twisted her head to either side, her eyes straining against the dark cloth to make out any sort of detail as to her surroundings. It was a futile effort. What she could tell was that the air was fresher here. The usual stench of city living was strangely absent, as was the hustle and bustle noise of a busy city. Definitely outside of the capital, she concluded.

“Walk,” the guard on her left commanded as he yanked her roughly forward. The crunch of dirt underfoot changed to stone again and from the sudden chill and decrease in light, Daana assumed they had passed into an airy building. If uncle’s chilling words were to be believed, it was a dungeon. Probably just one of the many dungeons that those in power claimed didn’t exist.

Obviously she couldn’t see any sort of front desk or reception area, not that she was familiar enough with dungeons to know if they even had such a thing. It was probably safe to assume there would be no mint on her pillow. Probably not a pillow either. Or a bed. Maybe she could find a nice dead rat to sleep on.

Low voices drew her from her thoughts. Whatever conversation was exchanged was wrapped up quickly and Daana found herself being delivered into a different set of hands. These ones came attached to a much larger body. One that smelled like cheap cigars and unwashed armpits. She felt a warm, sweaty hand wrap over her shackled wrists as the other pressed flat against her shoulder. Pressure from the palm on her shoulder told her that it was time to move again.

The warden, jailer, guard–whomever this person was, walked her several paces and then took a sharp turn. The stairs came next. The stone steps were small and poorly spaced, spiraling upwards in such an endless manner Daana feared the guard was taking her all the way to the top just to prove a point. The putrid stench of overflowed chamber pots and mildew permeated her burning lungs as they climbed ever higher.

She heard a muffled scream in the distance. Or at least she thought she did–still kind of hard to know for sure with the damn hood muffling everything going on around her. Perhaps it’d just been the wind. Or a mouse, or a creaky door, or the tortured soul of one of the many ghosts that undoubtedly haunted the dark corridors in the dead of night.

On second thought, this was a terrible plan. Why in the name of chaos did she agree to this?

To the relief of her aching feet, they eventually reached the desired floor and the guard hauled her down a poorly lit passageway. The hand wrapped over her wrists yanked her to a halt. Daana heard the jangle of iron keys on a keyring next and then nearly jumped out of her skin when the guard raised his voice. “Stand at attention, back wall!”

Daana had a sickly feeling that he wasn’t addressing her.

The door swung open with a shrill creak moments before Daana felt her shackles unlock and the hood was yanked from her head. An ungentle shove sent her careening into the open doorway. Catching her balance, Daana spun around in time to see the barred door slam behind her. The guard tested the integrity of the lock and then left, his heavy footsteps growing softer as he disappeared down the unlit corridor.

Flexing the life back into her numb fingers, Daana turned and attempted to gauge her gloomy surroundings. Her vision adjusted rather quickly, which she normally would have been grateful for, except that in this case the shadow that loomed over her turned out not to be a trick of the low light at all, but a person.

A low voice rumbled over the top of her head. “I hate it when they make me slaughter my own dinner.”