The next few hours were, and I say this without exaggeration, the most excruciating bore of my entire life. The room felt too small, too warm, and far too crowded with men who thought debating map routes was a thrilling pastime.
Victor, Atticus, and Brutus had gathered around the table like three monks worshipping the sacred art of cartography, heads bent close, muttering in a language made entirely of numbers, arrows, and the occasional grunt of agreement.
I sat cross-legged on top of the table, chin in my palm, watching them with the same fascination one reserves for watching paint dry—or a snail attempt a marathon.
The map lay sprawled like a wounded beast, its veins and arteries drawn in black ink, its heart beating somewhere beneath the mess of red lines and annotations.
Every time I looked at it, my head seemed to spin a little. The tunnels went on forever, coiling and branching in all directions, a labyrinth that made even the prison itself look quaint by comparison.
"This," Victor said suddenly, tapping one section marked in faded red ink, "is the primary route I planned to follow."
He sounded terribly proud of himself. I peered over his shoulder, squinting at the squiggles. "How thrilling," I murmured.
Atticus, bless his bespectacled soul, nodded sagely. "It would certainly be the most optimal route," he murmured. "Shortest distance from the central pit. Fewer branching tunnels to get lost in."
Brutus grunted his approval, the sound like a goat discovering it could hum—or perhaps a sack of potatoes arguing with itself about the weather.
Meanwhile, I slouched further down on the table, propping my chin in both hands. "Oh yes," I drawled, "absolutely riveting. Do go on. Nothing I adore more than watching grown men squabble over topography."
Brutus didn’t even glance at me as he muttered, "Patience, Loona. Not every problem can be solved by shaking your hips at it."
I gasped, clutching at my chest in mock horror. "How dare you. I’ll have you know these hips have solved plenty of problems. You just lack imagination."
He rolled his eyes with all the grace of a man who’d rolled them far too many times in my presence. "We’re trying to make sure you don’t die, idiot."
I pouted—a small, deliberate, perfectly practiced pout. "You say that like dying isn’t my favorite hobby."
"Oh yeah?" Dregan called from the back, where he was very unhelpfully lighting another cigar. "Then maybe go do that somewhere else while we think."
I threw a piece of charcoal at him. It bounced off his boot with a satisfying plink. "Philistine," I muttered.
Freya snorted from somewhere behind me. "We’re planning a break-out, not a tea party," she grunted.
"I don’t see why it can’t be both," I said sweetly. "Liberation and libation. Has a nice ring to it."
For another few minutes, the drone of conversation continued, words like "load-bearing shafts" and "structural access points" swirling uselessly around my head.
My gaze wandered again, following the route Victor had mentioned. It twisted through the tunnels until it met a section marked with bold crosshatching. That must’ve been the barrier leading to the sealed off tunnel. It looked sturdy enough on paper to ruin anyone’s day.
Victor tapped the end of the red line with his finger. "The problem, as I mentioned," he said, "is here. This is the section the High Warden had sealed off. We’ll need enough duskmetal to breach it cleanly."
"Right," Brutus said, nodding to himself. "So how do we get it?"
Victor pointed a bit further up the map, near a small annotation that looked almost like a railway line. "Here. The loading station connected to the main cavern. That’s where most of the ore gets transferred before being shipped down the old railway."
I sat upright then, my boredom evaporating like steam. "Wait—did you just say railway?"
Victor blinked, caught off guard by my sudden enthusiasm. "Yes. They used to transport duskmetal by steam engine, back even before the tunnels were sealed."
My heart gave a little flutter at the mention of this new discovery "Then the plan is simple," I said, gesturing grandly. "All we have to do is impersonate the guards loading the crates, grab ourselves a handsome little engine, and ride it right along your precious red line to the barrier. It’s perfect!"
Victor gave a cautious nod. "Precisely the idea."
Even Atticus looked up from his notes, his thin lips twitching into the faintest of smirks. "Ingenious. Dangerous, of course, but... efficient."
"Danger is just efficiency with better lighting," I said proudly.
Atticus adjusted his spectacles. "Then the only question becomes—when?"
There was a beat of silence. The men looked at one another. I could almost hear them overthinking. So I saved them the trouble. "Tomorrow," I said.
Every head turned at once. Brutus stared at me as if I’d announced I was marrying the Warden himself. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," I repeated, cheerful as a sunrise. "You know, that thing that happens after tonight."
"Loona," he said slowly, like he was explaining arithmetic to a mischievous child, "you can’t be serious. We’re not ready."
"We’ll never be ready," I said, waving him off. "If we wait until everything’s perfect, we’ll still be arguing about the map when the High Warden decides to host us all for a public execution."
Victor frowned, considering. "He’s not entirely wrong," he murmured.
Atticus nodded, surprisingly quick. "Indeed. The High Warden’s movements have grown unpredictable. The longer we hesitate, the more likely he’ll cut off our access entirely. Acting now gives us the advantage."
Brutus threw up his hands. "Whatever you say."
"Perfect" I said brightly. "Now that we’re all in agreement, let’s get moving."
I turned toward the far end of the warehouse where our little army of degenerates and would-be revolutionaries waited, loitering against the walls. "Alright, my darlings!" I boomed from across the room. "You heard the verdict. We ride tomorrow. That means tonight, we prepare. Supplies, weapons, food, anything that doesn’t scream ’pathetic death wish.’ Grab it all."
To my astonishment—and minor arousal—they actually obeyed. The room erupted into motion as the men scattered, shouting orders and rummaging through crates. The noise rose into a chorus of chaos, boots thudding, metal clattering, the occasional curse flying through the air. It was beautiful in that terribly destructive way only chaos could be.
Brutus and Victor stayed behind at the table, still muttering over measurements while Atticus began sorting through vials and instruments, preparing whatever strange concoctions he planned to bring. Dregan, naturally, poured himself a drink and declared his contribution "moral support."
I was about to join him when a movement caught my eye—a figure stepping out onto the upper balcony. It was Mia again.
She looked pale still, her hair disheveled, eyes half-shadowed by exhaustion. But her posture was different—rigid and coiled tight with purpose. Her gaze was locked on Victor below. By the Gods, if looks could kill, he’d have been paste on the floor.
I sauntered toward the stairs, calling up lightly, "You should still be resting, love. Wouldn’t want you fainting again in front of all these impressionable men."
She didn’t reply, just kept staring daggers. Victor finally noticed and froze mid-sentence as his face drained of color. The air tightened then, almost electric. I could practically taste the tension. Something dangerous simmered beneath her silence—the kind of hatred that doesn’t burn hot, but moves slow, cold, and patient.
I folded my arms and leaned against the railing, watching with the morbid curiosity of a cat near an active mousetrap. Whatever storm was brewing between those two, I wasn’t about to interrupt it. Yet.
Instead, I turned to Atticus. "By the way," I said casually, "Would you be so kind as to use those lovely keys of ours to free everyone tonight?"
He looked up from his notes, blinking once. Then he smiled—thin and knowing. "Of course."
I grinned. "Knew I could count on you."
The next few hours passed in a haze of preparation and chaos. Weapons were cleaned, water rationed, food stolen, and makeshift packs assembled.
The air grew thick with smoke and anticipation. I liked it—the buzz, the danger, the sense that something irreversible was about to happen. Nothing spices up the evening like a pending revolution.
Eventually, the others began dispersing for the night. Brutus and I, along with the beastman, made our way back to our cell with the weary silence of conspirators who’d finally run out of clever things to say.
The heart of the prison was quiet now—eerily so. My footsteps echoed softly, mingling with the faint hum of pipes behind the walls. For once, the silence wasn’t unpleasant. Rather it felt like the calm before a storm.
Inside the cell, Brutus immediately busied himself polishing the shotgun that had been resting in the corner, his motions slow and meticulous. I perched on the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment. There was something oddly comforting about the sight—his steady hands, the low rasp of the wet rag, the faint gleam of the weapon under the torchlight.
Dependable, unyielding Brutus. Gods, what a sight.
Meanwhile, my beastman stood in the corner, gnawing on something that might have once been a bone. I tilted my head. "You know," I said thoughtfully, "for someone with the body of a god, you have the attention span of a fruit fly."
He grunted. "Oh don’t look at me like that," I said. "If you’re going to be my bodyguard-slash-murder-puppy, you need to learn discipline. Watch."
I stood and clapped my hands together. "Sit," I said. He blinked. I clapped again, more insistently. "Sit." He hesitated, then, with a puzzled rumble, he trailed to the center of the room and lowered himself to the ground.
"Good boy!" I chirped, patting his head before leaning down and whispering, "Now roll over."
The confusion on his face was priceless. I demonstrated by twirling a hand dramatically, and after a moment’s consideration, he did it—an awkward, heavy roll that nearly shook the floor.
I clapped again. "Marvelous! We’ll have you performing tricks for treats in no time."
Brutus didn’t even bother looking up from his weapon.
I rewarded the beastman with a little grope on the thigh—purely motivational, of course—and he made a pleased sound somewhere between a purr and a growl. I was just about to teach him to backflip, strictly for enrichment purposes, when a sharp knock echoed from the bars.
I glanced back, already anticipating who it was. Atticus stood there, the light from the lantern he held glinting off his spectacles, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Interrupting your... pet training, am I?"
"Depends," I said, stretching my arms. "If you brought snacks, you’re forgiven."
"No snacks," he said, voice dry. "But I thought you’d like to know that everyone’s been set free. They’re waiting below for your instructions."
For a moment, the words didn’t quite register. Then they hit me—sharp and thrilling. I straightened slowly, feeling that familiar rush of excitement flare through my chest. The kind that makes your blood sing and your grin come uninvited.
"Well then," I said, smoothing back my hair. "Let’s not keep them waiting."