A knife

The clang of iron tore through the silence.

"Wake up, lazy *****"

The knight's boot slammed against the bars of the iron cage. Melantha was jolted awake from her half-sleep. She rubbed her temple to ease the pain that had accompanied her for days. Her wrists burned from the weight of the chains. She forced her aching limbs to stand slowly. The women around her stirred from their sleep with exhaustion clear on their panicked faces.

The cage's door opened widely, and knights stormed in with their lamp oils, choosing women randomly. Gasp and struggle echoed inside but were shut down by the knights' fists.

Liory stood beside her, smiling mockingly at her.

"Come on," he said, yanking her arm. "Tonight is your lucky night."

Melantha's heart dropped, and panic crept within her, but she composed herself.

She could have thought of this. She was not the princess! She was a nobody.

The group of women was dragged outside. Melantha walked over a cold and muddy ground barefoot, cold biting at her skin.

Maelle stood beside her, pale with worry. Melantha nodded weakly as a reassurance, but inside, dread kept increasing.

It is not the time to be weak! You have to think of a way.

The camp was alive with men's loud voices despite the darkness surrounding it. Shadows dances across tents. The air was filled with a strong smell of smoke.

Melantha kept her head down as they marched past tents, bonfires, and men's leering eyes.

They marched through rows of tents until they reached a large cooking fire. Pots boiled. Smoke curled upward. Pots of onion, celery, garlic, and tomato were put on the side. A man with a grease-stained apron and a face like spoiled milk was chopping something with a butcher's knife.

Melantha gulped. Her dry throat made her cough. For someone who ate so little for days, this scene was a torture. She was starving.

"What are you staring at?" the cook snapped. "Get me the meat! Move!" yelling at them like a madman.

Melantha joined the line of women passing food and supplies, ignoring the heavy weight of shackles. She stood near the fire, getting some comfort from the heat after spending days in the cold.

"You're so slow! We have a hungry tummy to feed! HURRY," the cook screamed at them, waving his knife with every syllable. His tan face turned red like a tomato.

Melantha's head throbbed.

Then she saw it—a knife.

The blade gleamed in the firelight.

Melantha's heartbeat quickened.

That… could be a way out.

She hurried and helped the women while thinking of a plan to get the knife without getting suspicious.

She took a step forward with a basket of vegetables. Her knees wobbled. She "accidentally" slipped, scattering the food. The cook cursed and bent down to yell directly in her face.

"YOU IDIOT?" he yelled, then picked the vegetables.

Melantha lowered her head. Her hands moved quickly, gathering vegetables, and in the same breath, slipping the knife into her sleeve, burying it deep within the folds of her dress.

He kicked her away. "Get back in line!"

Melantha stood up. Her heart was beating loudly. In that moment, when her fingers brushed the knife, she felt that she held the world between her fingers.

The knife was wood and steel, but it was a source of—hope.

When the food was prepared, the women were ordered to serve it to the soldiers. Melantha carried trays of meat and bread past groups of warriors laughing around fires, boasting about their victories.

"… and that old king, he begged for his life on his knees like a dog…"

More laughter echoed.

"And the prince, what was his name, Raly? He could not even hold a knife not even a sword! How did he become a prince?"

Melantha clenched the tray so hard her knuckles turned white. Her face stayed calm — cold, unreadable — but inside, rage churned.

How could they feast so easily, laughing with blood on their hands?

Didn't they feel it? The weight of what they'd done?

Or were their hearts already dead?

The questions kept coming.

Each one like a spark.

And inside her, something was catching fire.

"Now their woman had to serve us! I could not get used to it," one of them joked, leering at her. His eyes were following her every movement.

Melantha glanced at him, then tilted her head.

"Pretty one too," another said, nodding toward her. "You sure she's just a kitchen hand?"

An insult after another. Laughing at them. Belittling them.

But they would get what they deserve sooner or later!

She vowed!

Melantha's tired feet were about to give up when the fist ended. She wanted to sleep and think about what she would do with the knife. When they were near the tent, a voice behind them yelled out.

"Liory! Wait"

Melantha turned to see the man who kept looking at her at dinner, standing there with Liory. The exhaustion was wiped out.

The knife was close, screaming to her to use it.