I drop hard, slamming into the tiles. The bucket tips, filthy water sloshing everywhere.
The room spins.
Someone laughs. I hear it, distant and cruel.
“Pathetic,” a guard mutters.
I grit my teeth and push myself up. My arms scream. My head pulses with white-hot pain.
But I get to my feet.
I will not stay down.
Not here.
Not in front of them.
“Pick it up,” the guard barks.
I do. Bite down the groan that wants to rip free. Force my legs to move, one stubborn step at a time.
They want me broken.
Petru wants me erased.
Silpha wants me forgotten.
But I’m still here.
Even if my body’s trying its damnedest to betray me.
Later, in the sleeping cells, I curl up on my bunk and shiver under the threadbare blanket.
The fever’s burning me up from the inside now. Sweat slicks my skin. Every muscle in my body aches like I’ve been beaten with rods.
I press my forehead against the cool metal of the wall, breathing slow through the nausea.
I can hear the other laborers whispering.
Not about me. No one dares waste breath on me anymore.
But they know.
They know the signs.
Sick slaves don’t last long in the Spine.
Too weak to work? You're dead weight. Dead weight gets cut.
I ball my hands into fists under the blanket.
I’m not dying here.
I refuse.
I don’t care if my lungs collapse and my bones snap.
I’m not giving Petru that satisfaction.
