Chapter 6 THE FIRST ESCAPE

The cell block was quieter than it had been in days, the kind of quiet that didn’t soothe—it stalked. Ivanca felt it before she understood it, a shift in the air, a pressure against her ribs that had nothing to do with armor. She walked the length of the corridor with deliberate calm, boots tapping steadily against the stone. Every sound echoed too far, too sharply, as if the walls themselves were listening.

Ayra sat in the corner of her cell, knees drawn to her chest, fingers absently tracing patterns in the dust on the floor. Not magic—Ivanca had checked enough times to know when the witch was pulling threads of power. No, these were symbols of boredom, or maybe restlessness. Or maybe something more dangerous.

“You’re early,” Ayra murmured without looking up.

“You’re awake,” Ivanca replied. “Again.”

Ayra’s head tilted with a ghost of a smirk. “Hard to sleep in a place built for ghosts.”

Ivanca unlocked the gate just far enough to step in the threshold, the chain still attached to Ayra’s cuffs clinking lightly. She checked the restraints, the pins, the locks. All intact. All unmoved. And yet—

Something was wrong.

Ivanca’s training screamed it. Her instinct sharpened to a blade’s point. She leaned in closer, scanning every detail, every possible breach in containment.

“You’re tense,” Ayra said softly. “More than usual.”

“Something is off,” Ivanca admitted.

Ayra’s eyes darkened, softer than Ivanca expected. “Maybe it’s because today’s the day they decide whether I live or die.”

Ivanca stiffened. Ayra watched her carefully.

“Hearings don’t concern you,” the warden said.

“Everything concerns me.” Ayra shrugged. “It is my life.”

Ivanca exhaled through her nose, measured and controlled. “They won’t execute you.”

Ayra lifted a brow. “You sound sure.”

Because I am responsible for you. Because I won’t let them.

Because I don’t know why it matters this much.

Ivanca kept all of it inside. “The king wants information before he wants blood. That buys you time.”

“Time isn’t safety,” Ayra whispered.

Before Ivanca could reply, a deep echo rolled from the far end of the block—metal striking metal, followed by a roar she recognized instantly.

A breach.

Ivanca moved so fast the air snapped behind her. She locked Ayra’s gate, checking the mechanism twice, then drew her blade in one fluid motion. Ayra rose to her feet, chains rattling.

“What’s happening?” she asked, voice low.

“Stay back,” Ivanca ordered.

A part of Ayra bristled, but she did as told, stepping into the shadows of her cell. The corridor lights flickered, then steadied. Heavy boots thudded closer, multiple sets, moving in a way Ivanca instantly classified: not soldiers. Intruders. Armed. Coordinated.

And coming straight for Ayra’s cell.

Ivanca positioned herself between the approaching footsteps and the witch, posture squared, blade angled. The first intruder came into view—masked, armored, bearing the sigil of the Dread Faction. Not from the kingdom. Not sanctioned. Mercenaries.

And mercenaries never came for prisoners unless someone wealthy wanted them.

Ayra sucked in a sharp breath. “Ivanca—”

“I see them.”

The first mercenary lunged. Ivanca’s blade met his mid-swing, the impact crackling up her arm. She pivoted, ducked, and drove her elbow into his throat. He collapsed. Two more charged, forcing her back a step. Steel rang through the corridor. Ayra pressed against the bars, watching with wide eyes she tried to hide behind indifference.

Ivanca fought like she was born for battle—precise, ruthless, terrifyingly calm. She took down the second mercenary, then the third, but a fourth slipped past, sprinting straight toward Ayra’s cell.

“No—!” Ivanca shouted.

But Ayra wasn’t helpless. Even without spellwork, she moved with quick, desperate instinct. She swung her cuffed wrists, chains cracking across the intruder’s jaw. He fell sideways, dazed.

Ivanca ran him through before he could regain balance.

The corridor fell silent but for the sound of Ivanca’s breathing—tight, forced, unsteady in a way that unsettled Ayra more than the attack itself. Blood dripped from Ivanca’s blade. More smudged her knuckles, her cheek, the edge of her jaw.

Ayra reached for her before thinking. “Ivanca—are you hurt?”

Ivanca stared at the fallen bodies, jaw clenched so hard Ayra could see the tension ripple. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine,” Ivanca snapped.

Ayra flinched—not from fear, but from something more complicated. Ivanca noticed instantly and looked away, shame flickering across her features before she locked it down.

Ayra swallowed. “Why would mercenaries come for me?”

Ivanca wiped her blade clean, then finally met Ayra’s eyes. “Because someone wants you dead before the hearing.”

Ayra’s breath hitched. “Or wants me freed.”

Ivanca stepped closer, voice dropping. “A rescue mission doesn’t involve killing half a prison block.”

Ayra absorbed that, her expression shifting in layers—fear, suspicion, something softer. “Then what now?”

Ivanca didn’t hesitate. “Now we move you. A safer location. A tighter hold.”

“A cage inside another cage,” Ayra muttered.

“Alive,” Ivanca countered.

Ayra looked at her for a long moment. “You sound like you care.”

Ivanca’s pulse flickered. “I care about doing my job.”

Ayra smiled—small, knowing, painfully gentle. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

Ivanca opened the gate. Ayra stepped out slowly, chains dragging across the floor. She waited for Ivanca to grab the restraint chain like usual, but instead, Ivanca paused.

“You stay behind me,” she instructed. “Do not speak to anyone. Do not fall behind.”

“And if I do?” Ayra teased. “Will you carry me?”

Ivanca didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ll drag you if necessary.”

Ayra’s smile widened. “Promises, promises.”

Ivanca began leading her down the corridor, but every step was haunted by the knowledge that someone had penetrated the king’s security. Someone powerful, well-funded, and bold enough to attempt extraction in broad daylight.

And they would try again.

Ayra seemed to feel it too. “Whoever sent them won’t stop.”

“No,” Ivanca agreed.

“Do you know who it was?”

Ivanca hesitated. “I have… suspects.”

“Care to share?”

“No.”

Ayra rolled her eyes. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you ask too many questions.”

They reached the end of the block. Ivanca checked the corner, then motioned for Ayra to follow. They moved quickly, silently—two enemies, two allies, two something-elses neither wanted to name.

Halfway up the stairwell, Ayra spoke again.

“Ivanca?”

“What.”

“You saved me.”

Ivanca didn't look back. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Ayra smiled softly. “You keep saying that. But I don’t believe you.”

Ivanca lifted her chin, jaw tight enough to crack.

“Believe what you want,” she said.

But her voice carried something she couldn’t hide—

Fear not for herself,

but for the witch behind her.

And Ayra heard it.

She heard it perfectly.