✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛʏ-ꜰɪᴠᴇ

The Prisoner's Dilemma.

🧶

Eventually, Clarisse deemed Rory could walk fine, despite her numerous injuries. Without warning, she yanked the rope binding Rory’s wrists, forcing her to her feet with a sharp tug. Rory stumbled, her balance unsteady as pain shot through her battered body. Her vision blurred for a moment, the edges of the world hazy and indistinct. She barely had time to catch her breath before Valentine stomped out the dwindling campfire with the heel of her boot, plunging them into a suffocating darkness. A second later, the sharp click of flashlight switches broke the silence, and two beams of light cut through the gloom.

Then, without another word, they began moving, dragging Rory along like a reluctant shadow.

The journey through the tunnel was suffocating in its silence, broken only by the rhythmic scuff of boots scraping against damp stone and the soft, electric hum of the flashlights. The air was thick and musty, tinged with the metallic bite of minerals and the lingering scent of old smoke from the fire they had left behind. The flashlights wavered with each step, their flickering glow casting long, spindly shadows that twisted along the uneven walls, making the darkness seem alive.

Rory moved as best she could, but every forced step sent fresh jolts of pain up her legs. Her muscles throbbed, her body still raw from both the fight and the ceiling crumbling on her. The rope around her wrists chafed her skin, burning against raw flesh, but she bit back any sound of discomfort. She refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing her struggle.

Valentine kept glancing at her, her gaze unreadable, but there was something less severe in her eyes compared to Clarisse’s ever-present scowl. Rory wasn’t sure if it was pity or simple assessment, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

"She's slowing us down," Clarisse snapped after a while, her patience wearing thin. Without warning, she gave the rope a vicious tug. Rory barely had time to react before she was yanked forward, her boots slipping on the uneven ground. She fell hard, her shoulder slamming against the cold stone.

"I'm right here, you know," Rory muttered under her breath, glaring at Clarisse as she struggled to regain her footing.

Clarisse scoffed but didn’t bother to respond. The silence stretched between them again.

After a few more minutes of walking, Valentine exhaled sharply, as if she could no longer stand the weight of the quiet. "Camille joined the Hunters of Artemis last winter," she said, her tone light—too light. It was a strange, almost offhand remark, delivered as if they were simply old friends catching up rather than captor and captive.

Rory didn’t react—not outwardly, at least. The name sent a jolt through her, but she forced herself to keep her expression neutral, her breathing steady. Was that meant to be a distraction? A taunt? Or was Valentine actually trying to make conversation? The possibility of the latter felt absurd, but there was something about the way she had said it, like she wasn’t looking for a fight.

Clarisse, however, was less patient. "She doesn’t care," she snapped, her grip tightening on the rope as if she expected Rory to try and run at any moment. The irritation in her voice was sharp, edged with something more—frustration, maybe, or disbelief at how quickly Valentine seemed to forget that Rory was the enemy.

The truth was, Rory did care. Much more than she could ever afford to let them see. Camille had been her friend once. The thought of her joining the Hunters left an uncomfortable knot in Rory’s stomach. Had Camille taken the decision before or after Maddie’s death? The question gnawed at her, but she didn’t dare ask.

Instead, she clenched her jaw and stayed silent. The less she spoke, the less she risked revealing. Silence was safer.

Her focus drifted as they walked, her body moving on autopilot while her mind wandered. The ache in her muscles dulled into a low, persistent throb, something she could push into the background if she didn’t think about it too much. Each step sent a fresh pang through her bruised legs, but the pain had settled into something almost manageable—like a distant hum rather than a sharp sting. She hardly paid attention to where they were going anymore, letting Clarisse’s relentless tugs on the rope guide her forward.