"You think there’s a choice?" she snarls. "You survive, or you die."
I drag myself to my feet, dizzy and shaking but upright.
"I’m surviving," I say, voice steady even if my knees wobble.
"At what cost?" she spits.
Her words are a slap, but they’re not cruel. They’re raw.
Bitter.
Like she’s talking to herself more than me.
A long silence stretches.
Silpha’s hands tighten at her sides, nails digging into her palms.
Quieter, "It never leaves you, you know. The shame."
I meet her eyes.
For the first time, she doesn’t look like Petru’s iron lieutenant.
She looks like a prisoner.
Just like me.
The nausea claws up again, but I swallow it back.
"I’m not ashamed," I say, even if my voice cracks. "I’m still fighting."
Her mouth twists like she wants to call me a liar.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she turns sharply on her heel and strides out of the cell, the door slamming behind her like a gunshot.
I slump against the wall, sliding down until I’m crouched on the floor, every muscle trembling.
But inside?
Inside there’s a small, stubborn spark lighting up again.
Because I saw it.
Silpha looked at me—and didn’t see a pawn.
She saw herself.
And that’s a crack I can work with.
One breath at a time.
One heartbeat at a time.
I'm not done yet.
Not by a long damn shot.
