In a prison of four walls and a metallic door, a fourteen-year-old girl lay curled on the cold, hard ground. She looked no older than ten. Her hair, once golden as summer wheat, now hung in tangled strands streaked with silver — a silent testament to the agony and abuse she had endured.
Her eyes, the blue of a summer sky — bright and endless — stared blankly at the door. She sat with her back pressed into a corner, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs. Both her hands and feet were marked with fine silver lines, some still tinged pink, as if freshly made wounds had healed too fast.
She wore a tattered, oversized black men's tunic and a pair of gray children's trousers — too small now, perhaps once beloved by a five-year-old. On her, they barely passed as pants.
Silent tears streamed down her vacant eyes. A small, trembling frown tugged at her lips, and a soft pink pout jutted forward. Her stomach ached, but there was nothing she could do for the pain.Miraline knew her fate — and she was powerless to change it.
Asking for help would only make things worse. Her body was too weak, too fragile to endure another beating. And if this was truly what she feared — if her time had come — she had to stay quiet. Speaking up might turn her into nothing more than a breeding mare for those sick bastards.
So she stayed silent.And hoped for the best.
Miraline didn't know what time it was — time had long lost its meaning — but the guards came for her at nearly the same hour every day. Like clockwork, they brought a single cup of water and an apple. Most days, she was unconscious when they arrived. And even when she wasn't, she was so dazed and distant that she barely registered what was happening around her.
But today was one of the rare days when Miraline's mind and body seemed to obey her, even if just barely. It was hard to move, and even harder to think of anything beyond the pain — the constant ache in her body, the gnawing emptiness in her stomach, and the sharp cramps of her moonblood layered on top of it all.
She began to hear the loud footsteps of the guards approaching — the kind of heavy, deliberate steps that reminded her of her tormentors… and of the hunger gnawing in her stomach.
Miraline knew the rules well — and what happened when she didn't obey them.
So, she stood.
Her legs trembled, the room swayed around her, but she forced herself forward. Even though her body quivered and her knees threatened to give out, she was determined to reach the center of the room.
It took her two falls and many stumbles to reach the center. There, she collapsed gracelessly, arms hitting the floor first. It took too much strength to kneel properly, so she simply bowed her head in relief, pressing her forehead to the cold stone.
It took a little more willpower to tuck her feet beneath her, to kneel, to sit up, and place her hands on her thighs. She forced her back straight and fixed her gaze on the door.
The first rule of the room: when you hear your superiors approaching, kneel in the center, keep your back straight, and fix your gaze on the middle of the door. Never look a superior in the eye — if you do, they have permission to do whatever they want with you.
So that's what she did. Miraline heard the footsteps slow, then come to a full stop in front of the door. She heard the jingle of keys being taken out, the soft clink as they slid into the lock, the sharp clicks as it turned. She heard the creak of the handle being pushed down, followed by the rush of fresh air spilling into the room.
The second rule of the room: when the door opens, say, "Welcome, masters. How may I serve you?" Then bow your head to the floor and extend your arms, palms down, in front of your body. Do not move unless commanded.
The millisecond the black cape came into view, Miraline began to speak in a blank, emotionless tone — no stuttering, no hesitation.
"Welcome, masters. How can this Miraline serve you?"
It wasn't part of the rules for her to use her name, but she had noticed how it put the black-caped men in a smug, satisfied mood for the rest of the time she remained conscious. It was like the smugness that comes from taking something not your own — the satisfaction of knowing you had done something unforgivable, something dangerous, and so, so wrong.
Without a second thought, she bowed her head to the floor, the motion fluid and practiced. In one smooth, deliberate movement, she extended her arms, palms down, pressing them firmly to the cold ground. The action was automatic, the same as breathing — a reflex born from years of obedience, her body moving without hesitation or thought, driven by the weight of the rules she could never escape.
There, she knelt — head bowed to the floor, arms extended, palms down in front of her body. The position they demanded. The position that kept her safe if not for a short time. But she knew that it was always their word against hers — and they could lie without consequence, for no one would question their truth. So, she was not at all surprised when she heard the whoosh of a boot coming toward her, followed by the instant pain that she had long since grown used to. The sharp sting in her side, the throb of her bruises, the burn of her muscles — it never got easier, no matter how many times it happened.
And she knew, deep down, that by the end of it, she would be crying — her body wracked with sobs, her voice hoarse from screaming, her pleas for mercy lost in the cold, indifferent air. It was inevitable. She had been through this too many times to fool herself into thinking it might be different. No matter how much she begged, it would never change their cruelty. Yet, the hope — faint, fragile, almost gone — still lingered in the deepest corners of her heart. She clung to it, even as she braced for what was coming. Even in the darkest hours, she couldn't help but wish for something different.
A sharp breath caught in her throat as the footsteps drew closer, and she felt the familiar weight of inevitability pressing down on her chest. This was her life now. This was all she had ever known. She would endure the pain, the silence, the endless torment... until there was nothing left of her.
But just as the boot lifted to strike, a strange, unexpected sound filled the room.
A voice. A command.
"Stop."
It wasn't one of the guards. It wasn't the voice she had come to fear.
Miraline's heart skipped a beat. She didn't dare look up, her eyes still fixed on the floor, but the sudden shift in the air around her was undeniable. Something was different. She could feel it.
For the first time in a long while, the room held a heavy silence, as if waiting for something—someone—to make a move.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Miraline allowed herself to wonder:
Could this moment, this strange interruption, change everything?