I sat against the wall of my cell with my knees to my chest. Cold air wrapped around my shivering form. "D-damnit..." I cursed myself.

My escape attempts had all failed. I'd lost my "privileges" to a cot, a coat, anything I could use to try and break out. Now, I had stone walls, shackles, and a barred window that welcomed the winter wind like an old friend.

"Gli-Glimin!" my teeth clattered as I shouted to my guard and caretaker, "I'm turning icy blue in here; better stop me, or I'll paint my shackles in that blue and shatter them!"

I looked down at my trembling hands and wished that was how my Ambrosia worked, but it wasn't. Glimmin was well aware I couldn't paint the cold iron of my shackles, that the liquid would bead and drip off them like water off oil. If it hadn't, I'd have coated them in paint pulled from my bread provisions and slipped out of them long ago.

The wind whistled through my window; the sight beyond it both excited and taunted me. The Tower, that titanic, white-stone monolith that rose into the clouds. It was wreathed in the electric blue light of the ley lines that snaked across its form. It was my father's greatest ambition. Topping The Tower.

I would beat him to it.

My voice rose again for Glimmin, "Fine, I'm not breaking out tonight; give me some warm water, something!"

It took a long while before the shutters on my cell door slid open. I lifted my head and surveyed the young man behind it through my roughly shorn auburn hair.

The brow of Glimmin's clean-shaven face was furrowed, taking in my sad state. Barefoot and huddled in overalls and a tank-top, goosebumps ran down my wiry arms to the shackles on my wrists.

"Back of the cell, Lord's Spawn," he said, the nickname he'd given me had long since lost its bite. He wasn't angry; there was a touch of concern in his voice.

Glimmin was more rival than foe. He had to keep me here, and I had to escape. I'd been bested by him many times, but I only had to win once. My father's wrath would be upon him when that happened, but I wouldn't pity the guard. It was part of our game, and I'd suffered enough losses.

I shuffled along the wall, my chains clattering aside me until I'd maximized the distance between us.

His key slid into the lock with a jagged metal clamor. The rusted hinges of the iron door screeched as he stepped from behind it. Draping his right arm was a rough wool blanket dyed the deep purple of a terrible bruise; that color, the mark of my father's Warband, was ever-present across the Keep.

In his other hand was a wooden bowl of steaming lamb's head soup. As a child, I'd turned my nose up at the concoction; in my current state, it was taking all I had not to spring across the cell. The only thing holding me back was the thought of Glimin dropping the bowl in panic.

Savory, herby notes met my nostrils, and my eyes began to water, "Glimin, you're finally coming around!"

He turned his head to hide the curve of a smile spreading across his lips, "Don't get any ideas, Ablee. Keeping you alive's part of my duties; I don't think your dad would be happy if you lost any digits to frostbite."

"You're wrong," I said, my eyes tightening to a scowl, dislodging tears that warmed my cheeks, "Now, could you set that down?"

His gaze dropped to the bowl and blanket, "You promise you won't make me regret it?"

I wiped an arm across my face, my breath hitching. That wasn't a deal I wanted to make. "You want me to lie to you?" I asked.

Glimin's thumb picked at the blanket's rough fabric, "Fine," he said, bending down to place his gifts on the floor, "I'll have to take them back in the morning."

"Deal!" I said. After springing to my feet and giving him a moment to retreat, I descended on the provisions.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

I threw the blanket across my back and huddled over the fuming bowl, basking in its warmth.

Glimin watched through the door shutters, "You eating that or worshipping it?" he chuckled.

"What's it to you?" I sighed; the edge of my voice had fled. My numb fingers were beginning to awaken in a storm of pins and needles.

"Well," he said, "I'd like to know how it tastes..."

"Your mom make it or something?" I asked, huffing steam.

"Eeh..." He exclaimed, hesitating to respond.

"You made this?!" I asked, incredulous, and brought the sloshing bowl to my lips. The broth felt fiery hot against them, but I didn't care. The warm, salty liquid was a hearth for my soul to bask beside, its gamey smoke curling with notes of onion, cardamom, and black pepper.

"Real low of you to seek critique from someone that's lived off stale bread for the last 5 years; this is so good..." I slurped again at it, the chew of a string of meat soothing my chatter-weary teeth.

He was still silent, his eyes pinned against the wall of the cell to my side, refusing to look at me.

"Hey!" I continued through a mouthful, "I just gave you a compliment!"

"Yeah... thank you... I think..." he said, receding past the edge of the shutters; they clicked closed.

"You think!?" What the hell was up with him? The ungrateful prick, men never cooked; getting that sort of praise from a girl should have been a great honor.

I savored every drop, licking the bowl clean, and wrapped the blanket tight around my shoulders. The cold and gray of my cell's stone walls pressed back in on me. This reprieve would, of course, be short-lived.

It had been a long time since I'd had new colors to work with; the gray of my overalls was an exact match to the Keep's stone, a cruel joke of my father's. What could I do with the charming walnut brown of the bowl and the purple, which I hated, of the blanket?

My mind set to work. All that I wanted, desperately wanted, was escape. If only I could get out of this cell, pay my father a well-deserved ass-whooping, reclaim my brother Cline, and set about my climb...

An image began to form within my mind: a wavering curtain of purple fabric suspended from a walnut-brown wooden rod. I imagined myself slipping behind it, never to return.

I placed the empty bowl in front of me and closed my eyes.

My breath slowed, and I focused on the image in my mind, letting it fill the dark corners of my cell. The idea of escape felt like a flicker of light, fragile and fleeting. I reached out with trembling hands, fingers brushing the rough rim of the wooden bowl.

Taking a deep breath, I plunged my hand into it, imagining the rich, walnut-brown paint pooling in my palm. Withdrawing it, I opened my eyes. The paint dripped thick and dark from my fingers, glistening in the ley-lines light through my window.

Behind it, the inside of the bowl was the stark white of a blank canvas. My heart pounded with a frantic rhythm as I turned to the wall.

I stroked a bold line across the cold stone wall. It spread like ink on parchment, its edges uneven. Using my fingers, I added more and more detail, forming it into the sort of sturdy beam my father’s banners hung from. Stroke by stroke, the rod took form.

I didn’t stop. Pulling off the blanket, I Dragged my hands through it, gathering the purple I needed for thick folds of fabric. It felt wrong to use the warband's color, but as the curtain took shape, I began to enjoy the irony. Using a mark of his oppression as a means of escape, I knew it was only a dream, but hope still swelled within me.

My work was coming together; the basic form was there, but I wanted to perfect it. I pulled batch after batch of fresh purple paint from the blanket, leaving it striped like a tiger's pelt.

It took my frigid hands some time to realize the familiar scrape of the rough wall was missing; It had bizarrely developed a sort of give. I pulled back in surprise and saw it: the fabric I'd painted was rippling beneath the touch of the wind. It was moving. Rippling. My work had never done that before. Was this real?

I froze, staring at the living image. A gust tore into the room, and the fabric fluttered.

Pressing my hand against it, I expected the illusion to break, but the fabric yielded, sinking under my touch. My chains clattered as I leaned closer; the sound was distant in my ears. My fingers slipped through, past the slit at the curtain's center, into an expanse of warm, dark nothingness.

My heart thundered as the realization set in. I could step through, maybe even leave. What waited on the other side? The hallway and Glimmin's desk? Somewhere completely different?

For a moment, fear gripped me. What if I couldn't come back? What about my brother Cline? Could I truly escape the Keep and my father’s scorn?

I looked around the cell, the bleak stone walls that had been my prison for years. My hands clenched into fists. The time for hesitation had long passed; I would find a way out.

Donning my white and purple tiger pelt, my bare foot padded past the painted veil.