Ruthless 🗡️/ Fourth Wing

Chapter~38

My body shakes, but not from fear. I'm not afraid. No, the tremors come from the rage pulsing beneath my skin. I've been pushed too far. Too damn far. And I will not break.

I tilt my head back and grit my teeth, feeling the steel of the dagger still lodged in my leg. The poison is there, too, burning and spreading like venom through every vein, but I'll be damned if I let that stop me. I am not weak. I am not helpless.

I glance down at my leg, the blade still sticking out of my flesh, the blood dark and thick around it. The wound is deep. The pain is sharp. But it's not the pain that matters now. It's the fire inside me—the same fire I've always had. It's the one that has kept me alive. The one that will burn brighter than this poison.

I'm not dying in this place. Not today.

I breathe in deeply, focusing through the pain, letting my mind sharpen like a blade. I've been through worse. I've survived worse. And I'll survive this.

I shift my weight and use my good leg to pivot slightly, adjusting the angle of the dagger in my thigh. The movement brings an explosion of agony, but I can't stop. I won't stop. With my free hand, I grab the dagger, my fingers trembling with the effort but steady with purpose. My blood coats the hilt as I clench my fist and twist. The blade shifts with a sickening pop, but it doesn't come out easily. It resists.

I grunt with frustration. The poison is clouding my mind, making it harder to think, but I won't let it win. Not like this.

Another twist, and the blade starts to move again. This time, the pain is so sharp, so blinding, I almost lose myself in it. I scream out, the sound ragged, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Finally—finally—the blade slides free. My vision swims with the intensity of it, my body shuddering in shock, but I can feel the edge of it in my hand. The warmth of my blood on the steel. The knife is slick and heavy in my grip, but I don't hesitate.

The poison's still there, but my mind clears. The anger burns away the fog. The chains rattle in frustration, their cold metal still holding me in place, but they're nothing.

I have a weapon. I have the will to survive.

I eye the cuffs—both wrists and ankles—and the chains hanging from them, mocking me. My muscles scream from the strain, but I don't give them an inch. I shift my position again, keeping the dagger tight in my hand, and I bring it down hard against the first set of chains.

It's loud—too loud. The metal screeches as the blade bites into the first link. Another strike, and it shatters. The cuff on my wrist falls away.

One down.

I don't stop. I don't even pause to breathe. I lunge forward, using my strength, my desperation, the pure, raw instinct to get out of here. I swing the dagger again, carving through another set of chains, until the second cuff falls from my ankle.

Two down.

I'm not finished.

With the last, most difficult cut, I bring the dagger down onto the final link. It sparks with resistance, the metal screeching beneath the blade, but I push harder, the last of my strength concentrating into the strike. There's a sickening snap and then—freedom.

The chains fall to the floor in a heap of useless, broken metal. I stand, my breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps, my legs shaking beneath me, but I'm free.

The weight of the dagger in my hand steadies me, and I look down at the blood—my blood—streaked across the blade. The pain in my leg is intense, my vision blurred, but it's nothing compared to the rush of freedom.