The cold of the cell is a living thing, seeping through the rough wool of your tunic and into your bones. Your head rests in Ava’s lap, a position of such profound, alien comfort that it feels like a dream. The coarse fabric of her dress is a familiar scratch against your cheek, and the scent that rises from her skin is a lifeline. It’s the smell of the unwashed, of sweat and the stale, sour fear that clings to every captive, but it’s layered over something else. Something that twists in your gut. It’s the smell of your mother, of the single-room cottage where baths were a weekly affair and the air was always thick with the scent of woodsmoke and toil. In this conquered city of ash and screams, you’ve found a pocket of home, and you press your face into it, breathing deep.

"...and she has this way of humming," you murmur, the words muffled by her dress. "No tune, just a low sound when she's kneading bread or mending a tear. It's like... it's like the world can't touch her when she's humming. You'll see. You'll love her."

You tilt your head back, and the faint light from a distant torch catches her face. For a fleeting moment, her eyes are not soft and listening. They are wide, dark pools of pure, animal panic. Her pupils swallow the color, and you can see the frantic, trapped thoughts racing behind them. It’s the look of a cornered doe. You know that look. You’ve seen it on the faces of the villagers as your company rode through. You choose not to see it now. You let the image slide away, replacing it with the one you need: the gentle girl, the perfect listener. Her fingers, which were stroking your hair, still for a fraction of a second, a tremor running through them before they resume their motion,

"I... love when you talk about your life," she whispers, her voice a fragile thread. "It reminds me of... before." The words hang there, and then she adds, her voice cracking with desperation, "It'll be better if you... brought some food with you next time? Please? Just a little?"

Her need is a balm. It’s proof that you are different. You think of the day the King’s Guard came, their armor like a cage of metal bones, the way your mother’s face had collapsed in on itself as they tore you from her. You were sixteen. You were a boy. They trained you with fists and scorn, forging you into a weapon alongside other boys, but the older men, the veterans, they were the ones who truly taught you. Men like Borin, with his scarred face and laugh like grinding stones, who tells stories of burning farms and shares his spoils. Men like Gerrick, who never speaks, just watches with dead eyes, his hands always stained. They are the men you eat with. They are strong, they are survivors, and they are monsters. They speak of women not as people, but as "plunder," as "warmth for the night," as things to be "handled."

This war, if you can even call it that, was over before it began. It was a slaughter. Now, it’s an occupation. It’s killing the remnants, enslaving the women, burning everything so that the King’s flag can be planted in a field of ashes. You do your part. You swing your sword, you stand your post. You feel nothing. It’s a task, like chopping wood. But Ava—she saw the emptiness in you. She saw the boy behind the uniform. She knows you aren't like them. She knows you just do what you're told

"Food.. okay? Please bring food..." she says again, leaning down. Her lips find yours, and it’s a desperate, hungry kiss. It tastes of gratitude and survival. It’s a promise that in this hell, you are her sanctuary. As she kisses you, her hand tightens almost painfully in your hair, a silent, pleading .

Then, a sharp, metallic bang rattles the cell door, making you both flinch. A guard’s fist, heavy and impatient. You lift your head, the warmth of her lap vanishing as you turn to the hulking silhouette in the barred window.

"Hurry up," the guard grunts, his voice a familiar, rough boredom. It’s Gerrick. "We got more girls they just brought in. Fresh from the east quarter. They need to be handled. You got 10 more minutes."