TW: Implied Incest, Violence, Death, Drugs, Imprisonment, Temporary Madness, Extremely Brief and Interrupted Assault.

My experience in Tronjheim was, in a word, trying.

There is no such thing as "leisure time" when one is working undercover. I had my job with Hrama I worked all but twice every ten days. Then I had a web of spies to manage; intricate comings and goings, coded letters, meetings in the darkest hours. I slept little and, even in dreams, I could only see each of my schemes laid out like spider silk. It's a wonder that I spared any time to spend with Makhek!

Eventually, the lack of sleep and isolation wore me down to a point where I knew something had to give. Though, I confess, even I wasn't expecting exactly how I would break down.


I jolted out of my doze.

I was still blind from sleep, and it took a few sluggish gropes around my desk to find a pitcher of water. I poured the crisp liquid straight into my painfully dry throat, gurgled, and spit into the smoldering coals nearby. Gods, I feel like I've been beaten with a stick. How long have I been asleep in this chair? I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and surveyed my poor desk. My half-finished notes were a disaster of smeared ink and drool, with a clear imprint of my cheek outlined on the page. My fingers wandered up to inspect the patch of sticky filth on my face. I groaned and crumpled up the ruined paper in barely restrained frustration. This is more than difficult; this is unsustainable. A few more days like this and I'll be too exhausted to think clearly. I need to delegate, but none of these pups are worth a damn!

My work had given me a whole new appreciation for Galbatorix's plight so many long years ago. It was that very shortage of skilled labor that led me to Surda. And also dragged me out of bed when all I wanted was to waste away and join my Anthony in his grave. Even after so much time, just thinking his name sent a wave of unpleasant tingling through my whole body. It was shameful to still be torn apart over someone who'd wanted me dead!

But then again…

I was so desperate for his good graces when I returned. Once I had it, I let Galbatorix's explanation stand unchallenged. A single night of torture and Anthony confessed? It must have been pretty extreme; anything intense enough to flip a double agent would have left obvious signs. No leader worth the name would send a spy who wasn't willing to die for the cause. I had no respect for the (late) Surdan King, but even he was capable of that much.

I fixed my last view of Anthony in my mind as best I could, brushed all my notes away from my desk, and whispered the spell for creating a fairth. The ink flowed neatly out of a bottle on my desk and sank into the unfinished wood. Sure enough, the image was tall and proud, not cowed in partial madness. And, in our final exchange, he saw me; he knew me. His mind was unbroken, through torture or any other means. If he'd turned traitor to his cause willingly, Galbatorix would have used him, not killed him! I leaned back, overcome by the most obvious conclusion I've ever reached in my life: he was no more a spymaster than any of these yuppy nobodies!

Bile bubbled in my throat. The idea that it took me decades to see behind such a shallow deception sent hot shame straight to my core. Anthony, what was it that you died for? Not even for something you believed in, but for… Another conversation, much more recent and unpleasant, surfaced in my aching brain. Beren's bored monotone offering the lynchpin for every awful thing in my life: "He's always wanted you."

I leaned over and emptied my already-famished stomach into a waste bin. He wouldn't… He couldn't possibly! I blinked back burning tears. I knew, better than anyone, that he would. There was nothing on earth Galbatorix wouldn't do to get what he wanted; no matter how petty the goal or how high the cost. He was a killer, a selfish maniac at his very worst, an addict to the adrenaline of the chase. And I let him! Even Katana saw the truth of him, but I refused to even look… And now I'm just as much a monster as he is. I made a monster of myself in his name! We're bound together; for better or worse.

Two sharp raps on my door nearly knocked me out of my seat. "June, are you all right? If you don't answer I'll bust this door down, so help me-"

"No need! I'm coming." I stood- though even I had to hang my head low in a dwarven dwelling- and meandered to the door. I opened it and looked down at my unexpected visitor. Mahkek looked ten years younger than he had earlier that same day. His thin white hair was slicked back, and his split beard was freshly braided with amber beads at the end of each side. His shirt was pristine white, his pants a dull crimson, and his shoes shined like two black mirrors. But more than anything I gawked at the coat; the self-same coat he'd had patched a hundred times and more, still replete with burns and Hrama's careful mendings.

The old dwarf searched me up and down for some sign of injury. "You've caught the bug that's going around then? Here, you sit and I'll be back with some tea. It'll cleanse your throat and help you keep some bread down."

I considered explaining myself, but it was usually better to just let Makhek do as he thought best. Only Hrama could ever get him to back down from a challenge, and then only after hours of tireless effort. I wandered back to my desk and was met by my dear Anthony's image. I swallowed hard and tipped the bottle of ink over, the harsh black washing everything into one dark pool.

"I'll have to start calling you June Bug!" Mahkek wandered back in, holding a damp towel and a mug of hot tea. I gratefully sipped at the bitter liquid and draped the cloth around the back of my neck. "If you feel another wave coming on, you aim it anywhere but at me, that understood? Yes? Good then. Now, there's no need to be so mournful looking; it happens to the best of us. And this cleanup will be nice and easy." I tried to smile, but it even felt forced and watery. Mahkek paused in his fussing and stared harder at my face. "I'd give my good leg to know what can make you cry."

"Just," I paused, "thinking too much." I swallowed more tea to stall for time.

"About what?" He shoved the waste basket out into the hall and pulled my door closed behind it. The olfactory relief was heavenly.

I sniffed. "Love, mostly. I'm starting to think it isn't real."

Mahkek whistled; one low, somber note. He tugged a stool over to me and plunked into it, his ever-present cane resting against my desk. "Dark thoughts for an already dark night. And what does a little June Bug," I stuck my tongue out and he grinned, "know about a whole world's worth of love? Take it from an old, old, dwarf far past his prime: Love is real. It's as real as the stone under our feet!" He clomped his metal prosthetic down for emphasis.

"So you do carry a flame for Hrama after all," I teased.

"Bah!" He waved his hand at me. "She's too young to even be my granddaughter. Hrama is a friend, a very important one, but not of that sort. Besides, she's got no shortage of knurlan looking to make her their grimstcarvlorss; and more than a few humans too, I'd wager."

I chuckled. "There's no room for doubt about that. I know of at least three, and who knows the trouble she gets into when we're not around." Makhek had a hardy chuckle of his own while I drained the rest of my tea. "If not her, then who?"

"My wife." I blinked in astonishment as the temperamental dwarf smiled peacefully. "Minra, of Durgrimst Ingeitum."

"You said you were a member by technicality. But wouldn't your wife join your clan?"

He rubbed his palms together. The battled-hardened skin rasped like sandpaper. "I was no one. I lived on the road; beholden to no clan in particular. My mother dwelled alone deep in the tunnels between Tronjheim and Delfni and I had no father. Truth told? I had nothing at all until the day I met her."

I leaned in, watching him in wonder.

"She was like a little drop of sunlight in my dark world. I didn't dare offer her so much as my name; she was the daughter of a high-ranking member of clan Ingeitum. But, in the end, I didn't need to approach her at all." He sniffed so I offered him a handkerchief. After a few hearty trumpets, he shook his head and, beaming, said, "She came to me. I'd never dared hope to catch her eye! Let alone so powerfully; she went straight to her father the same day we met."

I winced. There was a conversation I'd never had to start- for obvious reasons- and I was glad of that fact. I briefly considered what would have happened if I'd gone to Torix and asked to have Anthony for my own. Probably the exact same thing that happened anyway.

Makhek sat a little straighter and continued, "At first he refused her. Though he had many healthy sons, Minra was his only daughter. He tried to offer her other suitors; even held a festival in her honor. She refused them all and vowed to live out her days alone and in misery if he would not give her to me."

"She sounds exactly as stubborn as you are."

"Much more." He tapped his nose. "We were married that spring. And she was the loveliest bride there has ever been, with a wreath of daisies and gold rings woven into her braid." He stared past me, into a beautiful memory. "I likely looked silly standing next to her. The nicest thing I owned was the brand-new coat issued to me when I joined the mountain guard. Her father loaned me these," he fingered the little amber beads, "and warned me that he'd rip my beard out by the root if ever he saw his baby girl unhappy. It was dumb luck that-" He hesitated as moisture filled his mismatched brown eyes, "that he was long gone before I ever let her cry."

I rose, plucked a dark bottle of mead off a shelf, and poured us each a glass. Makhek drained it in two hearty gulps. Even my years of heedless alcoholism hadn't quite toughened me enough to chug dwarven mead with impunity. I refilled his glass and he resumed his story. "We were happy for so long that I thought it could be forever. But Minra wanted a family more than anything; more than she even wanted me. I was nervous, but she had already sacrificed so much for us." He finished off his second glass and extended it for more. I obeyed. "When she was pregnant, I was so happy. I thought I could never care for anything as I cared for her… until I saw her growing with our child." His face contorted as he tried to subdue the expression of grief and pain, but it was a hopeless task. His dry, thick lips trembled as tears poured from his sunken eyes.

I gingerly took the glass from his hand and held his fingers in mine. "Before or after the birth?"

"After." He sniffed and wiped his face on the dingy handkerchief. "We named our baby girl after her mother and I," he heaved a steadying breath, "I lost them both within the month." His hand gripped mine firmly, and he stared me down with eyes full of purest joy. "But I don't regret it. Not a moment of it. The happiest I ever saw her was when I held our baby girl for the first time. It was like the gods themselves had gilded the moment."

I stared at the paradox of emotions battling on his face, uncomprehending.

He smiled through his tears. "She died content; with every dream fulfilled. And our poor little one went peacefully in her sleep, never knowing anything but the care we gave her. I only wish they hadn't gone alone." He tapped a fist on his left thigh. The dull clang perfectly illustrated his frustrations; why had he been passed over for death so many times; he who had already lived and lost everything? I just sat with him as he regained some composure, unable to offer anything to aid him. He swallowed another, much smaller, sip of mead. His next words were solemn and certain, "What is that, if not love?"

I nodded slowly, pressing his hand to my face. "If everyone knew love like that, I think our world would be a much better place."

"Everyone except Galbatorix and his ilk!" He joked. "May they all live out their days in misery, for everything they've taken!" again he rapped the metal leg.

I clinked our two glasses together in numb acknowledgment. "As they deserve."


That night held many lessons. My understanding of Anthony's fate was less a "sudden revelation" and more… finally facing what I always should have known. Makhek's eccentric obsession with his wedding suit received no more criticism from me. He donned it once a week, the same day that he lit the incense and refreshed the offerings at his wife's stone vault. I started joining him on these trips, listening hungrily to stories of what a real, healthy love might actually be like.

The kind of love that I did not deserve.

I was still loyal to Galbatorix, as torn apart and confused as I felt. He was all I had left. For his sake, I'd pushed everything else away. I still had a job to do in Tronjheim but, after it was done, I planned to confront my partner about my misgivings. It went far deeper than our relationship. I'd heard so many stories from members of the Varden, and they all started to paint a picture of life outside of the palace.

Galbatorix was focused, obsessed really, with furthering his own power. He paid exactly enough attention to politics to dump the Empire's resources into military might. But this coupled with the destruction of the riders left the rest of Alagaesia floundering. Trade routes were never fully safe, Urgals did as they pleased all along the Spine, medical aid was laughably unsophisticated, and education was unavailable to any but the highest echelon of nobility. Add to this mess: soldiers who were untouchable and acted like thugs more than guardsmen, and taxes that climbed relentlessly higher to fund them.

One ugly truth became clear: Galbatorix was a strong rider, but a pitifully weak king.

His servants did as they pleased because he didn't care to stop them. His people thought him a tyrant, but I knew the truth; he was, in almost every way, completely absentee! But I had plans to implement real, systemic changes. I knew I could convince him to let me; I was his queen after all. I was his shadow, his companion., his partner! He would pursue his studies and I would take the reigns properly in Uru'baen. All I had to do was wrap up my work in Tronjheim.

But, as life so often reminds me, it is in moments when we have the most to lose that fate chooses to strike. It began like every other day. Another long shift ended. Hrama locked up her shop. I hung around to chat with her about something trivial before heading on my way. I wish I could remember that conversation with Hrama… since it ended up being the last. But alas, the next few hours would dominate my memory of that day.


My walk was peaceful, if tedious. Summer in Tronjheim was a complicated beast. It didn't get quite as hot under Farthen Dur as it did out in the open sun, but it also didn't cool off nearly as much once the moon took her place. Midsummer-with its muggy moisture, total lack of breeze, and endless twilight- made me feel sluggish and useless. I was almost relieved to finally be in the tight, narrow tunnels that meandered casually throughout the city mountain.

When I'd first come to Tronjheim, those tunnels were what I despised the most. I could barely stand straight without grazing my head on the smooth, squared-off ceiling. I only thought of them as death traps; for two very obvious reasons. First: the thousands and millions of pounds of crushing weight hanging over us at all times. I had faith in dwarven mining as much as the next resident, but no one could really guarantee that they'd outsmarted nature. Second: they were impossibly long, fairly narrow, and only lit sporadically in less-occupied areas. If I was to plan an ambush, they would certainly be the place I chose. [A lesson from one secret agent to any others aspiring to the role: assume your enemies are at least as clever as you.]

I rested easily against the wall of one empty tunnel and waited for Flick. He was an excitable kid, a little too eager to help. I typically wouldn't agree to meet anyone so soon after our most recent operation, (a batch of smuggled goods had been confiscated by the Empire and the Varden's officers were scrambling for answers) but I knew Flick a little too well. The kid wore his heart on his sleeve, and if I didn't soothe his singed nerves he would get us all killed.

He was perfectly on time (that really should have been my first clue that things weren't all as they appeared). He trotted towards me but stopped a few yards away. My nerves prickled at his awkward behavior, but I had little choice but to feel him out; he knew too much to simply abandon him. "Be quick. I loathe these damned tunnels."

He swallowed hard. "I want out."

I lifted my brow. Poor thing deserved at least one chance to correct his trajectory. "That isn't possible, Flick. Not while you live."

Sweat dripped down his face. "But… I won't tell!"

"Of course you won't." I plucked a stiletto blade from its hidden sheath in my right boot. "If you can't handle the work load, I understand, but unfortunately I only have one retirement policy available."

He paled until he was white as a sheet. "N-no need to be hasty! I mean, I would hate to make you drag a body in this heat! I just don't like spying a-and treason!"

I smiled. "I appreciate the thoughtfulness. But I have to correct you. Being here, in Tronjheim, is treason. What you're doing now is more like… reparations. You owe the crown your assistance and, in exchange, we welcome you back into the fold. That was the agreement."

And then everything shifted. Flick seemed to relax as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and collapsed to the ground. I jolted forward but froze as I saw the crossbow bolt sticking out of his spine. I shifted my weight in preparation to run away…

But something caught my ankle and dropped me to the floor. I fell hard on my back. A boot, heavier than any limb of flesh and bone could possibly be, rested on my chest. The tip of a gnarled walking stick dug into my throat. Two beetle-like eyes stared down at me with a mixture of pain and utter loathing. "Who exactly were you talking about June Bug? You have friends back in the Empire?"

"Makhek, it isn't what you-" I choked as he dug his stick into my windpipe.

"No more lies!" He shouted. I heard armored dwarves approaching from Flick's end of the tunnel, but I really doubted they would get there fast enough to pull my very angry friend off of me. "I want the truth, or I'll kill you here and now!"

"Halt!" A voice shouted.

I scrabbled at the leg and stick for purchase, but the old soldier was a lot tougher than he looked. I managed to push up enough on the stick to force a little air into my bruised throat. "I thought you were smarter than that. I'm an enemy."

"One of Galbatorix's little pets!" He twisted and leaned down hard on the stick. "You chose the wrong place to build your nest. I'll crush you like the bug you are!" He roared and forced all of his weight down.

I moved without the need for thought. I rolled hard to my left, forcing him off balance at just the wrong moment. My right hand, still carrying my trusty stiletto, slid up and between two of my attacker's ribs. The weight on top of me increased as his limbs lost strength, as he crumbled to the ground. I yanked the blade free, dousing the floor and everything on it in blood. He clasped a hand to the wound with a soldier's instincts, but too much of his life had already fled. Besides, I knew I'd punctured a lung by the way he wheezed. His dying glare bit into me, as if he could finish me off with pure spite.

I kicked and wriggled out from under him, regaining my feet just in time to meet a flood of armed dwarves from both directions. They marched two astride from both ends, short swords leveled at me. I poked around them with a testing spell to absolutely no effect. This group was well-armed, well-defended, and cautious. I opted to buy time. "You shouldn't have sent in a crippled civilian to- AGH!" I staggered as my right arm fell limply to my side, a bolt stuck firmly in the joint. My blade slid from my numbing fingers, clattering on the stone. Another bolt dug into my opposite shoulder, and a third wedged behind my knee. I growled off the waves of pain, refusing to fall. I'd been trained to fight under every circumstance, even torture, to keep myself alive.

Then a swirl of dizziness assaulted me. It hadn't even occurred to me that the damned bolts were laced with something until the tunnel twisted. Two dwarves became six, then a dozen, then hundreds, and then everything swirled. I dropped to one knee, frazzled brain frantically trying to find a way out. I had precious few wards left to me as it was and, obviously, their weapons weren't affected by them. I was most definitely drugged, though to what extent I couldn't quite be sure. I had no weapon of my own, save the three they'd just put into me. Then that will have to do. "Throw!" The word clanged in my head, discordant with the thought I'd had only moments ago. Even worse, the little darts remained rooted in my flesh instead of hurtling back to attack their sources.

Everything began to fade. I grasped for a spell… but it faded from my mind. The lights of their lanterns faded from my eyes. And then all awareness- of pain, of fear, of anything at all- faded to darkness.

-:- -:- -:-

I awoke in a cramped, gloomy cell. My wrists were fastened one to the other in a solid metal aperture fixed to the wall. It was designed with dwarven height in mind, so I had been forced to my knees. Even in my awkward position, I could barely feel anything at all, let alone pain. Guards came at uneven intervals to jab needles dripping with gods-only-knew-what into me (presumably the drugs that were keeping me complacent).

I know not how long I remained in this place before my visitor came.

He was flanked by an entire contingent of soldiers. At first, I only saw his chest; broad and covered in the finest chainmail. I lifted my head slowly, already dreading what I would see. He was old, though perhaps not as old as Makhek, and had clearly survived many battles. A golden helm set with gemstones glimmered in the light of the red erisdar he held, though no light at all reflected in his flinty eyes. Any hope I had of a quick death fizzled out as I realized who he must be; Hrothgar, The Dwarven King.

"You caused my guards some grief," Hrothgar said. His voice rumbled like a pounding waterfall. "You killed a member of mine own family before their very eyes."

"I defended myself." I flicked my eyes back to the ground. The steely gaze of the ancient king was difficult to hold for any length of time.

"Aye. From a well-deserved fate," He paused meaningfully, "Rider Lilleth."

My head fully drooped. "What betrayed me?"

"You can tell much about a human by their hands. Some deductions are easier than others. You are none of the thirteen, and though you bear a marked resemblance to your sire, you are not Galbatorix. Which leaves us with only one question remaining; what to do with you now."

"I'd prefer a hanging. I hear that they're quick if done well," I said flippantly, "Or a beheading, if it comes to that."

"I confess, my first instinct was to draw and quarter you." Hrothgar clasped his fingers together, sizing me up. "But my council agrees that this would be a mistake. It had been many years since our nation felt the full brunt of Galbatorix's wrath, but that is a very short stretch for memories such as ours."

I smirked, a show of confidence I did not feel. "He would bring Farthen Dur down around you."

"Doubtful. But he could certainly do much harm before we could subdue him." Hrothgar seemed completely at ease, which only made me feel worse. "That leaves us with few options. Many wish to keep you just as you are."

My lip curled disdainfully. "Not the worst plan. Though if one agent could slip through, it's only a matter of time before someone else comes to rescue me- high profile as I apparently am."

"You've taken the words from mine lips. Which leaves us with concealing you until we find something of equal worth with which to barter."

I snorted. "Torix won't trade me for a paperweight, let alone anything of value. I failed; the penalty for that is death."

"But if you die here, we will never know." Hrothgar dusted off his palms. "Until then, you will be kept out of sight. You shall be neither living nor dead to the outside world; vanished."

Disquiet pooled in my gut. "So, interrogation and isolation. I hope you've swept up all of my little helpers, or your plan won't survive the week."

"You are the only traitor still breathing in Tronjheim. Six and fifty was the final death toll, if that means anything to you."

All of them. Serves me right for letting Flick carry messages; the damn fool probably flipped the second he was caught. "It won't do you any good to torture me; I'll break before I bend."

"There is only one place for you." Hrothgar gestured for a guard to come forward. He carried a slim phial of some awful yellowish liquid. "You will become another anonymous prisoner among thousands, no more significant than any other murderer. Only my most trusted servants will know your resting place, and there you will stay until I have use of you."

"Just kill me." I stared the dwarven king down, fighting back a wave of panic. "I won't be kept like a dog!"

He smiled. As long as I live, I will never forget the cold mirth that met my desperation. "You have a debt to pay. Hundreds have died on your order, but one day your life will buy many thousands more. Until that day comes, you must rely on that legendary fortitude. We will speak again, someday." He turned and left me there as his lackey forced my jaw open and dumped the sour liquid down my throat. I shrieked, swore, and shouted until my voice broke, but there was nothing I could do.

My memory thereafter goes totally black.


And black it would stay for a long, long, time. Their drugs ate at my consciousness until I simply wasn't. Time slipped by in an inconsistent haze. Even through the back-breaking work, I knew little pain. I thought nothing, felt nothing, was nothing. As a result, my memories of this period are limited to sudden vivid flashes amid the monotonous beat of weary feet.

Every day we rose as one, toiled to push carts loaded with quarried stone from the dig sight up a spiraling ramp, then collapsed back onto our threadbare blankets to await the next day. If someone deviated from that exact routine, they could earn any number of consequences. These ranged from beatings, deprival of food or water, isolation, or (most feared of all) extended sentences. Most kept their head low and avoided trouble, myself included. I still saw my fair share of horrors in that place, though, mercifully, many have faded with the years.


I remember a man's voice screaming. It started from some distant height, but it rapidly grew louder as its source plummeted through the ruddy void at the shaft's center. Every person stepped back from the open ledge for fear of being pulled into his fall. Finally, the shout reached its peak volume and receded.

And then… a sickening thud some levels below.

No one spoke; there was nothing to say. Minutes later a cloth wrapped in rope began a jerky ascent up the rigging. I glanced up from the path momentarily to see a patch of darkness soaking through the gruesome package.

I returned my gaze to the ground.

-:- -:- -:-

I remember the time I tried to lift my head. Instead, I received a sharp tug of pain at my scalp. I couldn't fathom how the two actions were connected until I tried to repeat the movement to identical effect. I stayed very still, my last two conscious brain cells struggling to understand how to make the pain stop.

My confusion was brought to a sudden end when a rough hand gripped a length of my hair and sawed through it carelessly; as if it had been any other piece of useless rigging. The black strands floated about in a jagged clump. I stared at them uncomprehendingly for the rest of the haul. I had a sinking feeling that they should remind me of something important, but what I could not recall.

After that, I remember my hair always ending up in a sloppy braid, though I know nothing of who could have fashioned it so.

-:- -:- -:-

I remember the ground very suddenly vanishing from under my feet. I flailed madly. I was already dizzy all the time, and now I was dangling precariously with endless darkness all around and certain death just below. If I had been fully conscious I may have relished the early end of my imprisonment. As it was, I felt only raw, animal fear.

Then, just as suddenly as I'd been thrown into darkness, a strange hand reached out and snapped me back to my feet. I overbalanced into the rough cavern wall and scraped my hands as I collapsed into a little ball. My shoulder was bruised from the force of the fall, but I clung to the solid surface gratefully. Childish tears leaked freely down my face.

A rough hand tugged me back in line. Then it was replaced with a gentler one that patted my back and insisted my next step would be true.


All in all, it was a devastating, terrifying, and uniquely vulnerable experience. In my entire life, only one other ordeal has come even close to matching it in terms of sheer unpleasantness, and that was at the hands of Galbatorix himself. I hate appearing weak, being out of control, and being so completely exposed that literally anything could happen.

My only "defense" was that I was part of a group referred to as sleepwalkers. We were special prisoners that either could use magic or were deemed dangerous in some other way. We had to be drugged within an inch of our lives for our guards' safety. It was accepted practice for our fellow prisoners not to pay us any mind or give us trouble (we were barely alive, let alone able to interact with our surroundings) and some even looked after us.

However, as with all groups of disenfranchised felons, some will feel that the rules don't apply to them. In a lovely twist of fate, I would end up owing my freedom to one such fool.


I woke in the middle of the night, more conscious than I'd been in a very long time, suddenly aware of a hand trespassing on my body. I snatched the wrist and yanked its owner underneath me. Some wretched man I'd never seen before stared blankly up at me, clearly beyond shocked to have been caught. I didn't wait for his wits to return. I snapped a hand to his throat and pressed until he stopped struggling.

The demanding task exhausted me physically and mentally. The drugs were on the wane, but I still felt violently ill; feverish, dizzy, shaking, and sore. But, even then, I could string two thoughts together for the first time in… gods, how long? If I feel even this good, another round of dope is definitely coming. I cautiously draped the heavier body over mine, covering us both with a blanket. It took me the better part of an hour- pressing my face into the floor and straining with every last bit of sense at my disposal- before the word finally broke my lips, "Stenr." I made a shallow impression in the stone, just enough to hide my body beneath my victim's, and waited. I heard the footsteps as they made their rounds, counted the pause as they bent to my unwilling body double and injected it with the foul cocktail intended for me. With every passing hour, I felt more of myself returning, though the process was agonizing.

Still, I waited.

When the morning count rolled around, my new friend's absence was noted. The idea of a prisoner disappearing wholesale from an inescapable jail was completely unheard of, so the guards really didn't have a proper procedure in place. They prolonged the count and, in the confusion, I traded places with the body one last time. They filed us out of the communal cell, double-checking every face and number as we passed. I made sure to act the part, swaying and slurring like any other day with my unfocused gaze roughly on the floor.

At the final bend between the hallway and the shaft, a sudden rush of shouting reached me (apparently my friend had been discovered). I gathered whatever reckless courage I could and parted a seam into the solid rock. I wedged in and let it flow shut behind me, save for a small slit for air. It was worse than a coffin, worse than even that horrible fucking mine, but I reigned in my panic. I heard mayhem through my breathing slit; a commotion of shouts and confused orders. Finally, I heard someone shouting for a magician.

The race was on.

The adrenaline spiked inside my rapidly weakening body. If they caught me, I would never have another chance to escape. I needed to move, and I needed to move now; before they found a mage. But the only way I wanted to go was up; towards fresh air.

Well, no time to think of a better plan.

My sluggish brain struggled to piece a spell together, but I managed, "Gatharí unin stenr." Tendrils of power laced up through the ground until I found an open space that could only be a carved tunnel. The problem was the meters of stone between me and my target. I calmed my body as much as I could, filled my lungs to bursting, and focused on the ascent. A careful choreography of flowing stone around me consumed my entire focus as my internal clock ticked down. By the time my head broke the surface of the tunnel, all I could do was choke on the precious oxygen for many long minutes. My body's reserve of energy was all but spent, but I didn't care. I was free.

But where was I?

I expected the tunnel to be lit, possibly even occupied, but all that greeted me when I finally opened my eyes was endless blackness all around. I had no idea which direction to take. On a whim, I repeated my earlier spell, but this time I found only miles of unfeeling stone. Too far to use the same trick twice. I also knew that my pursuers had every advantage; every second I wasted sitting around was another chunk of my lead that I lost. I wanted so badly to fall over and rest, regain more of my faculties, and set forth with at least some semblance of a plan! But, even if I had, I would be no closer to knowing which direction led to freedom.

I'd sat debating in circles far too long already when an almost imperceptible pat of paws on stone interrupted my thoughts. I reached out with my mind to find a rat scurrying past me. Before it could panic I said, "Sitja! Eka weohnata néiat haina ono. Kuasta eom edtha, stydja likami onr, un atra edtha sjon nen ono ach." She padded towards me and climbed into my offered hand. I stroked her fur like she was my most precious and cherished comrade. I flicked through her jumbled thoughts and finally saw, through her eyes, the literal light at the end of the tunnel. She needed to venture farther within to feast on Tronjheim's scraps so I replaced her on the ground and set off in the opposite direction.

A few hours later I was sprinting through a stone archway and out into a dazzlingly star-strewn sky.


There are very few moments in my adult life where I have wept openly and without reservation. But my first sunrise, returned to the surface at last, was one of them.