A Court of Ash and Fire

Chapter Twelve

A person appeared in her cell with a whoosh. "Dinner."

Aelin stayed curled up in a ball in her corner, her back to the newcomer. She listened as a metal tray was placed on the floor. A voice sighed. "Look. I don't think Rhysand should have done this," the voice said. Aelin kept her back to it. "It's not fair. Inhumane. And yeah, you did escape and stab him, but that doesn't mean he should keep you in a mental ward." The voice paused, and Aelin imagined the owner shaking their head. "I'll try to get him to let you go, okay? You're so young. You shouldn't be exposed to something like this."

"Trust me," Aelin said, her voice hoarse from lack of use, "I've been through a lot worse."

The voice paused again. "Don't give in, Celaena." Aelin turned just as the woman disappeared into shadow, glimpsing a mane of golden hair and a red dress before it vanished.

Once again alone, she scooted over to the tray. There was a piece of bread, a bit of meat, and some winter vegetables. A plastic cup of water sat on the side. There were no utensils. Nibbling on her food, she reclined against the padded walls. She couldn't hear anything except her own breathing.

She had no idea how long she had been in that wretched cell. People stopped by every few hours with food and medical supplies. There was a bucket in the corner to relieve herself that emptied automatically. The stab wound in her side was almost healed, with a fresh scar left in its place. She was in dire need of a bath, and her tunic and pants were stained with mud and dirt. Finished with her dinner, she stared down at the metal tray, not really seeing.

You do not yield.

So, she formed a plan in her mind. The floor, unlike the walls, was solid concrete. The perfect sharpening tool. Chucking her plate into the corner, she began feverishly rubbing the blunted edge of the tray onto the floor.

It took her hours of sweat and sore arm muscles, but eventually the metal edge was a sharp point. When she went to run her finger over the tip, a trickle of blood slid down the pad of her finger. "Perfect," she murmured, and dragged the tip over her forearm.

Blood poured from the wound, but she barely felt the pain. She let it pool into a dark puddle on the floor, visible only thanks to the slightly different shade of blackness. She dipped her fingers into it, and began to paint.

~

"The poor girl looks terrible," Mor said, winnowing onto the balcony. I lifted my head from my book, curling my feet under me. Rhys didn't take his stare away from his papers.

"I did what I had to," he said, munching on a grape.

Mor folded her arms and glared at him. "Surely you could do something nicer than shove her into an insane facility?"

Rhys lifted a brow at her. "Don't tell me you've gone soft on the criminal."

Mor wrinkled her nose. "I'm telling you, Rhysand, that she looks like she's barely into womanhood. She's so young, and you are going to break her."