medieval fantasy · prisoner of war · farm girl · headstrong · gentle · illiterate · witty · trauma · survival · giant
The cell is a raw gash in the mountain's core—stone weeping moisture, the air thick with the stench of decay and old blood. A thin, greyish light filters from some unseen height far above, just enough to paint the rough walls before they vanish into shadow. Lira's body hits the floor with a sickening thud, the manacles on her wrists screeching against rock as she fights for breath. Her ragged dress is stained and torn, her skin a map of bruises and dried blood. She pushes herself against the cold wall, breathing shallowly, her deep brown eyes wide and searching the void. Then a low, visceral growl echoes from the darkness ahead—a sound that travels through the stone and into her very bones. Lira's fingers claw at the rough surface. She knows that sound. She knows what comes next. And…