The Counting of Blows - Elara
Sleep came only because my body demanded it. My mind fought against it, wanting to stay sharp, to listen, to watch. But exhaustion dragged me under.
It wasn’t gentle. I dreamed of fire in the forge, of hammering steel that refused to bend, of Hector’s boot grinding against my ribs, and a set of amber eyes glowing through the smoke. When I startled awake, I didn’t know what was real until the door screeched open, metal on stone sending my head into a spin.
Boots. Two sets. The same warriors from before.
“Rise and shine, blacksmith,” one sneered, slamming his spear against the bars. They were inside the cell before I had time to sit up properly, the torchlight throwing cruel shadows across their faces. My eyes had grown used to the dark; the sudden flare made everything sharp and thin.
The first kick drove the air from me. The second doubled me over, coughing until spots danced at the edge of my vision. My ribs, already sore from earlier, felt as if someone had hammered at the bone. I curled instinctively, trying to shield them, but the ropes held me half upright. Fists, boots, laughter—it all blurred into one punishing storm. My screams echoed off the stones, swallowed by the drip that kept time in the darkness. I closed my mouth against the taste of blood and the instinct to plead.
“Taylor wants her humbled,” one muttered between blows. “Consider it done.” The clasps on my ankles bit into flesh as I was yanked away from the wall by my hair. They laughed as if this were sport, spat insults like pebbles. When their brutality ebbed, I lay on the cold floor, each breath a ragged knife in my chest. My body begged me to surrender, to let despair finish what their fists had started.
They treated the assault as casual banter, as if they were heading to a tavern and not standing over someone half their size. My hair mixed with blood and dirt; the darkness hid the full pattern of bruises. My left eye began to swell and sleep pulled at the edges of my mind. For a frantic second I wished for my Mate, for the change that would let me shift and run, to take this pain and tear it away. The thought cut sharp and useless and then folded into something else—fuel rather than weakness.
I closed my eyes and began to count. Not seconds this time—movements.
One: the guard on the left led with his right boot, his step sloppy.
Two: the taller guard leaned too close when he jeered; keys jingled at his belt.
Three: the time between torch checks upstairs—twenty minutes, give or take.
Counting made the world smaller and sharper, a thing I could hold. I catalogued details: the nick on the taller man’s boot that made his gait falter; the faint scratch in the torch bracket that always caught the light; the way the shorter guard favored his left hand when he shifted weight. These were the margins where mistakes lived. The life of a smith had taught me to watch the almost-invisible; a fraction of an inch changes how a blade will hold an edge. I remembered my father’s rhythm at the anvil—his soft, off-key hum, the way he steadied my hand when I struck true—and the rhythm steadied me now.
Breath by breath, I turned pain into data. Each inhale was a coin saved for a spend I intended to make. The torch’s heat reached my face in small waves; the smell of iron and sweat filled my nostrils—terrible, familiar, grounding. I could hear the mortar between stones sigh when a guard leaned. The keys chimed with a single note that hung in the air like a bell. Those tiny sounds became a map.
I let the pain burn itself into memory, cataloguing every weakness and opening. When the taller guard swung the keys, the shorter one laughed; when one shifted his weight, the other’s balance tightened. In twenty minutes the patrol would slacken, the torch would be checked, and their attention would wander. I could use that.
I tested a toe against the chain, a soundless, patient movement. Metal complained with a high, infinitesimal groan—something to work with. I had no tools, only callused fingertips and a stubborness in my chest that refused to be tamed by bruises. This strength spread from rib to finger to toe like an ember waking.
A daydream almost at this point was imagining having a Mate who stood by me with hands steady and strong, not to rescue me but to stand with me—someone to shoulder the job of survival. The image didn’t weaken me; it gave the shape of what I wanted. For now, I was alone at the anvil, and the anvil was cold.
Men had it easy being able to access the inner wolf from puberty, but us females only getting to experience the strength and bond when we found our fated mate was cruel in so many ways. I am guessing that it is a Moon God not a Moon Goddess, because there is no way in hell that a women would allow for such a hard stipulation to be placed. But all she would get right now is my prayers that my escape would go as smooth as possible.
When the guards returned for another round, their confidence was raw material. They saw only a limp body, a name someone else had given them to hate. Their ease made them careless. I kept counting—watching, listening, learning—until the torchlight thinned and the night began to lift at the edges. Pain was not an enemy but a teacher. I sat like an apprentice under its instruction.
Forged, not broken. The thought steadied me. I breathed slow, saved my strength, and waited for the small moment when intent could be turned into action. I would turn their arrogance into leverage, one careful, stubborn action at a time. Soon.