ABLEE

  Wrapped in cold air, knees to my chest and a rime-coated cell wall at my back, I shivered. "D-damnit..."

  My escape attempts all failed. I lost my "privileges" to a cot, a coat, or anything else I could use to escape. All that remained were stone walls, shackles, and a barred window that welcomed the winter wind.

  "Gli-Glimin!" I called for my guard and "caretaker" through clattering teeth, "I'm icy blue in here; better stop me, or I'll paint these shackles that color and shatter them!"

  I wished that was how my Ambrosia worked, but it wasn't. Glimmin knew well that I couldn't paint the cold iron of my shackles, that the liquid would bead and drip off them like water off oil. If it hadn't, I'd have coated them in paint pulled from a loaf of stale bread and crumbled my way out long ago, laughing into the night.

  My strength slipped into the frigid wind and out the window, but the sight beyond returned an ounce of it.

  The Tower.

  That titanic, white-stone challenge spanned into the clouds. A web of electric-blue ley lines snaked across it. It was my and my father Karich's greatest ambition. Topping The Tower. He commanded me to serve in his expedition, and my refusal landed me here.

  Upon my escape, I would gather a world-class crew and beat him to it!

  Glimmin gave no response, "I'll freeze to death in here; give me some warm water, something!"

  It was too long before the shutters on my cell door slid open. I raised my head and glared at the young man through a curtain of rough-shorn auburn hair.

  The brow of his clean-shaven face was furrowed, taking in my state. Barefoot and huddled in overalls and a tank top, goosebumps ran down my wiry arms to those cursed shackles.

  "Back of the cell, Lord's Spawn," the nickname he'd given me had long since lost its bite, but the reminder of my place in life still stoked my fire. His voice wasn't angry; there was a touch of... concern to it?

  Really? I hated his pity, but I also needed it, and what I really needed was to get rid of that need.

  He was more rival than foe. Glimmin had to keep me here, and I had to escape. He'd bested me many times, but I only had to win once.

  My father's wrath would be upon him when that happened. It was an unfortunate truth we both had to live with, but I wouldn't feel sorry for the guard. It was all part of our game, and I'd suffered enough losses.

  I shuffled along the wall, my chains clattering beside me until I'd maximized the distance between us. "Come on, Glim, this is bullshit! You know I'm right, you can't treat prisoners like this!"

  His key slid into the lock with a jagged metal clamor. The rusted hinges of the iron door screeched as he stepped from behind it. He was hyper-focused on me. I'd made him pay for venturing into my cell many times.

  Draping his right arm was a rough wool blanket dyed the deep purple of a terrible bruise; that color, the mark of my father's Warband, was everywhere across the Keep.

  In his other hand was a wooden bowl of steaming lamb's head soup. As a child, I'd turned my nose up at the stuff; in my current state, it was taking all I had not to spring across the cell. The only thing holding me back was the thought of Glimin dropping the bowl in panic.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Savory, herby notes met my nostrils, and my eyes began to water, "Glimin, are you finally coming around?!"

  He turned his head to hide the curve of a smile spreading across his lips, "Don't get any ideas, Ablee. Keeping you alive's part of my duties; I don't think your dad would be happy if you lost any digits to frostbite."

  "You're wrong," I said, my eyes tightening to a scowl, pushing out tears that, while shameful, still warmed my cheeks, "Now, could you set that down?"

  His gaze dropped to the bowl and blanket, "You promise you won't make me regret it?"

  I wiped an arm across my face, my breath hitching. That wasn't a deal I wanted to make. "You want me to lie to you?" I asked.

  Glimin's thumb picked at the blanket's rough fabric, "Fine," he said, bending down to place his gifts on the floor, "I'll have to take them back in the morning."

  "Deal!" I said. After springing to my feet and giving him a moment to retreat, I descended on the provisions.

  I threw the blanket across my back and huddled over the fuming bowl, basking in its warmth.

  Glimin watched through the door shutters, "You eating that or worshipping it?" he chuckled.

  "What's it to you?" I sighed; the edge of my voice had fled. My numb fingers were beginning to awaken in a storm of pins and needles.

  "Well," he said, "I'd like to know how it tastes..."

  "Your mom make it or something?" I asked, huffing steam.

  "Eeh..." He exclaimed, hesitating to respond.

  "You made this?!" I asked, dubious, and brought the sloshing bowl to my lips. The broth felt fiery hot against them, but I didn't care. The warm, salty liquid was a hearth for my soul to bask beside, its gamey smoke curling with notes of onion, cardamom, and black pepper.

  "Real low of you, seeking praise from someone that's lived off stale bread for the last 5 years; this is so good..." I slurped again at it, the chew of a string of meat soothing my chatter-weary teeth.

  He was still silent, his eyes pinned against the wall of the cell to my side, refusing to look at me.

  "Hey!" I continued through a mouthful, "I just gave you a compliment!"

  "Yeah... thank you... I think..." he said, pulling past the edge of the shutters; they clicked closed.

  "You think!?" What the hell was up with him? The ungrateful prick, men never cooked; hearing that from a girl should have been a high honor.

  I savored every drop, licking the bowl clean, and wrapped the blanket tight around my shoulders. The cold and gray of my cell's stone walls pressed back in on me. This relief would, of course, be short-lived.

  It had been a long time since I'd had new colors to work with; the gray of my overalls was an exact match to the Keep's stone. It was a cruel joke of my father's that prevented any sort of artistic expression. In my first year here, I'd thrown a wonderful cast of characters onto the walls to keep Cline and me company. That color had quickly returned to the things it was pulled from. What could I do with the charming walnut brown of the bowl and the purple, which I hated, of the blanket?

  My mind set to work. All that I wanted, desperately wanted, was escape. If only I could get out of this cell, pay my father a well-deserved ass-whooping, reclaim my brother Cline, and set about my climb...

  An image began to form in my mind, a doorway I could slip through, never to return, but how to best achieve that with the color on hand? The answer was a waving curtain of purple fabric, hung from a walnut-brown wooden rod.

  I placed the empty bowl in front of me and closed my eyes.

  My breath slowed as I focused on the image in my mind, letting it fill the dark corners of my cell. The idea of escape felt like a flicker of light, fragile and fleeting. I reached out with trembling hands, fingers brushing the rough rim of the wooden bowl.

  Taking a deep breath, I plunged my hand into it, thinking of the rich, walnut-brown paint pooling in my palm. Withdrawing it, I opened my eyes. The paint dripped thick and dark from my fingers, glistening in the ley-light through my window.

  Behind it, the inside of the bowl was the stark white of a blank canvas. My heart pounded with a frantic rhythm as I turned to the wall.

  I stroked a bold line across the cold stone. It spread like ink on parchment, its edges uneven. Using my fingers, I added more and more detail, forming it into the sort of sturdy beam my father’s banners hung from. Stroke by stroke, the rod took form.

  I didn’t stop. Pulling off the blanket, I dragged my hands through it, gathering the purple I needed for thick folds of fabric. It felt wrong to use the warband's color, but as the curtain took shape, I found myself liking the irony. Using a mark of his rule as a means of escape, I knew it was only a dream, but could feel hope swelling within me.

  My work was coming together; the basic form was there, but I wanted to perfect it. I pulled batch after batch of fresh purple paint from the blanket, leaving it striped like a tiger's pelt.

  It took my frigid hands some time to realize the scrape of the rough wall was missing; It had taken on the give of fabric. I pulled back in surprise and saw it: the curtain I painted was rippling with the wind. It was moving. My work had never done that before. Was this real?

  I froze, staring at the living image. A gust tore into the room, and it fluttered.

  Pressing my hand against it, I expected the trick of my eyes to break, but the fabric yielded, sinking under my touch. My chains clattered as I leaned closer; the sound was distant in my ears. My fingers slipped through, past the slit at the curtain's center, into a warn dark expanse.

  My heart thundered as the truth of it set in. I could step through, maybe even leave. What waited on the other side? The hallway and Glimmin's desk? Somewhere completely different?

  For a moment, fear gripped me. What if I couldn't come back? What about my brother Cline? Could I truly escape the Keep, and my father? Did I really want to? I owed the old man so much in return for what he'd done to me.

  I turned to take in my cell, the bleak stone walls that had been my prison for years. My hands clenched into fists. The time for thinking had long passed; I would find a way out.

  Donning my white and purple tiger pelt, my bare foot padded past the painted veil.