As the memory overtook her, the prison cell faded.
The world twisted and fell back into that moment.
The cart tipped.
The sound of the wheel snapping off the edge of the rocky cliff echoed like the crack of thunder. Gravity seized everything. The wooden frame groaned under its own weight, ropes snapped like whips, and then the entire cart plunged down the steep incline. Celeste felt her stomach lurch, her fingers clawing at the planks around her, but there was nothing to hold onto.
Her eyes locked onto the cliff's edge above—so far, yet so sharp and vivid in that moment. And on that edge, she saw them: Garrik standing still, his back turned. Her hand had reached for him—just a bit more, she could've grabbed hold. But he didn't move.
He left her.
Her throat tightened. Not from the wind. From betrayal.
Then she heard a faint, raw, and breaking through the chaos. "CELESTE!!" Padrin's voice.
It cut through the panic like a dagger through cloth. She turned her head, eyes wide, heart pounding as the weight of the cart dragged her down faster.
In her mind she begged—Why? Why did he let go? Why didn't you reach me, Garrik?
She scrambled up the inside of the tipping cart, trying to climb toward the rear, thinking it might give her more time, more leverage—anything to soften the fall. Her boots scraped over broken crates. Her arms pulled at shifting boards. Her knuckles split as she grasped at jagged wood, but it didn't matter.
Then came the impact. The world slammed into her. She didn't know what hit first—the cart or her body.
Wood shattered around her. Crates exploded into splinters. Something cracked violently inside her chest, and pain like a lightning bolt shot through her ribs. Her back slammed against the splintered interior. The breath was knocked from her lungs in one violent exhale, and all she could hear after was a hollow, ringing silence.
She lay still in the wreckage, eyes fluttering open and shut, barely conscious. The twisted remains of the cart surrounded her. Dust floated in the air like smoke, thick and gritty. Her vision waved and blurred. Her ears rang.
Through the haze of pain, one thought surfaced: Padrin...
She tried to move. Her left hand twitched. Her right dragged against the ground as she tried to push herself up. A spike of agony shot through her side. She gasped—and collapsed.
Her body convulsed, a wheezing, broken noise escaping her lips. She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, her fingers brushing sticky warmth.
Blood.
She couldn't breathe. She tried to inhale, but it felt like a blade was lodged in her lung. Her ribs were broken—piercing through, maybe even slicing deep into her lung. Every gasp was fire. Her chest heaved, but nothing came in.
A wheeze. A desperate breath. Then coughing. Wet, sick coughing. And blood—so much blood.
She writhed, grabbing at the grass and stone with fingers slick in red. Her mouth opened wide, trying to pull in air, but each attempt came up short, her lungs stabbing her from within.
No... Not like this... she thought. Not yet... I have to see him... I have to...
Every movement was like a storm of agony, and she pressed a bloodied hand to her chest. Her vision blurred again, but she clenched her eyes shut, forcing herself to focus.
A memory rose. A lesson, faint but still there—healing. Her mother's voice, warm and soft, teaching her the basics. It wasn't much. She was never good at it. But it was something.
She whispered weakly through cracked lips, "Please… I never was good at this… but please… work."
Her hand glowed. A faint green shimmer, weak and flickering. Her mana strained. The light flickered again. Then steadied.
The spell activated.
A sudden jolt ran through her body—like ice water rushing through burning veins. She spasmed. Her back arched against the debris. The pain flared once more before something inside shifted.
She gasped violently. Her eyes flew open. The breath came in like a flood through broken gates.
And then she coughed—harsh and heavy. Blood burst from her mouth, pooling at the side. Another breath. Another coughing fit. The blood spilled again—but now it was clearing. Her body shook with the effort, but her lungs—though screaming—began to pull in air again.
I… I survived…? she thought, blinking through the tears and the haze.
She lay there, chest rising and falling erratically, eyes wide, staring at the stormy sky above, with her fingers trembling against the splintered wood around her.
Her vision slowly steadied. The chaos around her had become still. Dust drifted in the air. Shattered crates and splintered wheels surrounded her like the bones of some great, dead beast. She shifted her head slightly—and that was when she saw it.
A long steel rod jutted clean through her left shoulder.
Her eyes locked onto it. It was thin, rusted, sharpened at the end like part of the cart's understructure. One half was still buried in the wood beneath her. The other had driven through flesh and bone. It had gone straight through, just below the collar, tearing her skin, ripping through the muscle. It pinned her in place.
She froze. And then, very slowly, she turned her head down to look at her leg.
Her left foot was twisted at an angle no joint should ever bend. The boot was bent with it, partway torn from the collision, and the pale flesh beneath was already purpling. Her shin was scraped raw, and a long gash ran down the outside of her calf. It was seeping blood—slowly, steadily.
Her breath hitched.
A small, tight whimper escaped her lips. Then she breathed faster. And faster.
Her body began to tremble—not from the cold, not from the injuries—but from the creeping, overwhelming dread. I can't move... I can't walk... I can't even crawl...
Then her eyes went back to the rod in her shoulder. The thing pinning her down. The reason she was stuck here like a corpse on display.
She whimpered again, this time more guttural, more raw. Tears were already forming. She clenched her teeth, trying to breathe evenly, but she couldn't. She couldn't even think. Her heart was pounding like a war drum, and her breaths grew quicker, shallower, more frantic.
"No…" she whispered to herself. "No, no, no… I can't die here…"
She forced her right hand to move, grasping a cracked chunk of wood above her. She dug her nails into it for support. Her whole body was trembling. Her shoulder was already swelling from the rod. Her foot screamed in pain. But if she stayed, she would bleed out. Or worse, be found by wolves or scavengers before anyone ever reached her.
She looked at the steel rod again. It didn't just stab her—it held her in place like a nail through meat.
She knew then that the only way out was to pull herself off it.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry as ash. Her breathing turned ragged, the fear bubbling into desperation. "You can do it," she whispered. "You have to do it…"
She repositioned her good arm, grabbed a higher beam with shaking fingers, and braced herself.
Then she pulled.
The scream that followed tore through the valley like thunder. "AHHHHHHH!!"
The steel ripped through her as she moved upward. It scraped against her shattered collarbone. She could feel every fiber of torn muscle. Her nerves exploded in agony. Her vision went white for a moment, and she nearly passed out.
She stopped halfway. Her body twitched violently, and she almost slipped back down.
"No! Don't let go!"
If she slipped now, she would impale herself again, maybe worse than before. She bit down on her tongue and pulled again.
Another scream. Her teeth chattered as she bit into the pain. Her eyes blurred with tears. Her back arched in revolt. Her body tried to shut down—but her will fought back harder.
"I won't die… I won't die here!!"
She gave one last heave. And the rod pulled free from her flesh.
Her shoulder exploded in fresh pain. Blood poured down her arm. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to her knees, falling forward onto her hands, the broken one giving out immediately.
She hit the ground. Mud splashed under her.
And for a moment, she just lay there, breathing, trembling, broken.
Her hair stuck to her bloodied face. Her mouth hung open, catching air in shallow, desperate gasps. Her left arm dangled uselessly at her side, twitching slightly.
But her eyes flicked open. She was free.
Her body was mangled, but she wasn't impaled anymore.
A wild, hoarse laugh burst from her throat. Uncontrolled. Borderline manic.
"I… I did it…" she panted. "I… I actually did it…"
But the relief didn't last long.
As the rush of adrenaline faded, the pain returned—sharper than before. Her shoulder screamed. Her nerves were on fire. Blood was running down her torso. And her leg—her mangled foot throbbed with each beat of her heart.
She collapsed fully onto her side, sobbing through clenched teeth.
Heal it. Just heal it. Like before...
She pressed her right hand to her shoulder, whispering the spell. Begging it to work.
But nothing came.
She tried again, and again—each attempt weaker than the last.
"No... No, come on…"
She felt the hollow emptiness in her chest—her mana was spent. That last healing spell had used everything. There was nothing left to draw from. Not even enough to overcast.
"I... I am too weak to cast the spell... I don't have enough mana, and I can't even force myself to overuse..." she whispered.
She looked at her trembling fingers, covered in blood, and then at her limp arm. Her whole body shook from helplessness.
The thought slammed into her: I might not survive this.
Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her lip trembled. Her body curled slightly, instinctively, as if to protect itself—but there was nothing left to protect her from the pain.
She lay there in the ruined valley, battered, broken, alone.