Day 3

The following morning, I find myself back in the corridor leading to the dungeon. I hesitate outside the door and take a slow breath, knowing what awaits inside. For a moment, I wish – pointlessly – for a way out that isn't there.

The girls flinch as the heavy door slides open. Aria's hand clenches at her side, while Harper presses herself deeper into the corner. The others watch warily as I step inside, my boots shuffling against the soft surface of the floor.

"Welcome back to another beautiful morning in Hell," I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

Aria's eyes narrow at the attempt at humor, while Mia flinches slightly, fingers tightening around the sleeping mat at her side. I immediately regret the words, wishing I could take them back.

Aria steps forward, her movements measured and controlled despite the strain in her jaw.

"No more waiting. Let's just get it over with."

I reach into the velvet pouch at my belt, pulling out the six sticks – four long, two short. The girls don't move as I hold them out. Harper's remains pressed against the wall, lips trembling, as if even approaching me risks sealing her fate.

Aria is the first to break the paralysis. She steps forward with steady, deliberate hands and selects a stick without hesitation. Juliette follows, slower, her fingers hovering before she finally commits. Mia steps in with a small, jerky motion, as if her body wants to get it over with before her mind can stop her.

One by one, the rest approach, drawing their fate from my palm with the same, inevitable reluctance. When the last stick leaves my hand, a heavy silence settles over the room.

Aria is the first to look at hers. A faint crease forms between her brows – she's gotten a long one. Juliette glances down and exhales in relief, shoulders easing. Harper's grip tightens on her stick – she still refuses to look at it. Mia’s eyes flick downward, her breath catching – but I can’t tell whether it’s relief or dread.

Isla has gotten a short stick. I can see it in her body language when she looks down – the way her shoulders slump just slightly, her fingers tightening imperceptibly. Her fingers twitch around the stick, as if she could somehow alter the fate inscribed within the wood.

Harper stares at hers, disbelief flickering across her face. She stands motionless, her wide eyes darting between her own stick and Isla's.

"I didn't..." Harper starts, but her voice cracks. She swallows hard. "I didn't think..."

"That you'd draw a short stick two days in a row, Harper?" I already understand that she has also drawn the short stick. Again.

Harper's head snaps up, her face contorted in disbelief. A strangled sound escapes her – something between a sob and a laugh. She grips the stick so tightly I think she might break it.

"This isn't fair," she whispers, more to herself than to me.

Her gaze drops back to the short stick, then shifts to Isla. The Scottish girl stands rigid, her face carefully neutral, but her hands tremble at her sides.

Isla exhales shakily, her lips parting. Her green eyes glisten with unshed tears as she shifts her weight, her fingers flexing and unflexing as if they’re looking for something solid to hold on to.

"You... you can't do this," Harper says, her voice fracturing. "You just can't-"

She looks at me, desperation etched across her features.

"You know how hard it was for me to do it with Sofia. You know I couldn't – I can't-" Her breath comes in short, panicked bursts.

She turns to Isla, her hands reaching out but stopping just short of touching her.

Isla flinches at Harper's outstretched hands, retreating until her back hits the soft dungeon wall. She presses herself into it, as if trying to merge with the surface. Her breathing is uneven, her face drawn with visible anguish.

"D-dinnae touch me," she chokes out, shaking her head violently.

Tears streak down her face, leaving glistening trails on flushed skin. She spreads her palms against the wall, her small body quivering.

Harper freezes, hands falling to her sides. Her shoulders slump forward, chest heaving. She speaks in a broken whisper.

"I didn't mean to hurt you... I’m just... I’m scared."

She licks her lips, glancing at the others for support. None meet her eyes. They all watch with tense, rigid expressions.

My fingers twitch at my sides as I observe Harper's breakdown and Isla's desperate retreat. The Scottish girl's breath comes in shallow gasps, her face contorted with fear. She wipes roughly at her tears, smearing them across her freckled skin.

"I d-dinnae want to volunteer," she stammers, her words hitching. "I cannae- I willnae."

Harper's hands shoot up, palms outward.

"Wait – Isla, please-" Her words crack as she steps closer, but Isla presses harder against the wall.

Isla's voice rises with desperate urgency.

"Stop! Dinnae come near me!"

Her voice slices through the room, sharp as a blade.

She turns her head sharply to the side, eyes squeezing shut as if blocking Harper out might make her disappear. Her hands splay against the wall, knuckles whitening with effort. A strangled sob rips from her, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to smother it.

Harper freezes mid-step, her outstretched hand trembling. Her face crumples as she realizes the full impact of her actions.

"I'm sorry."

Harper's whispered apology hangs in the air, unanswered. She takes a hesitant step back, her bare feet silent on the dungeon floor. Her hands drop to her sides, fingers curling into loose fists as she looks at Isla's rigid form. The Scottish girl remains pressed against the wall, her breathing fast and shallow. A tear slips down her freckled cheek; she swipes it away with an unsteady hand.

I step forward, and the shift in the room is immediate. The remaining girls fall silent, their bodies tensing as if bracing for impact. The air thickens around us, as though even the walls are waiting for what comes next.

Isla’s breath stutters when she notices me approaching. Her wide green eyes flick between me and the others, her small body trembling. When I stop in front of her – close, but not touching – she flinches like she expects a blow. She shrinks back against the wall, trembling, chin dipping to her chest as though making herself smaller might spare her. She doesn’t dare lift her eyes.

"Breathe," I say quietly, the command steady but not harsh.

Her chest rises and falls in shallow, frantic bursts. Her shoulders tremble, her hands curl into small fists at her sides, and she seems to shrink inward under the weight of panic. Harper watches from a few steps away, hands knotted together at her stomach, guilt and dread etched into her face.

"Please."

The word slips out of Isla in a tiny, fractured whisper, her voice breaking around it. She isn’t talking to me – It’s the kind of plea that escapes when terror squeezes every other sound out of a person. Her head tilts even lower, eyes squeezed shut, face turned partially away as though the very sight of me might trigger a blow.

I raise my hand slowly – just my fingertips – and touch the edge of her jaw. She startles at the contact, a sharp inhale rattling through her chest, but she doesn’t pull away. She simply freezes. My fingers trace the trembling line of her jaw until I reach the corner of her cheek. Her skin is damp with tears; I brush them away with my thumb. She shivers, her breaths small and uneven.

“Look at me,” I say, not unkindly.

Two fingers slip beneath her chin, guiding it upward with a slow, gentle insistence. She resists at first – not physically, but in posture, fear pulling her gaze downward. But my touch is steady, unavoidable, and slowly her face lifts, her tear-wet eyes forced up to meet mine.

Her pulse flutters wildly beneath my fingertips. Her lips part with a broken, shaky inhale. The terror in her expression is raw and unmasked – and for a moment, I can feel each unsteady breath trembling against my hand.

“Isla,” I say again, softer. “Breathe.”

She tries. Air drags through her nose in tight, uneven pulls. Her whole frame shakes with the effort, her delicate shoulders twitching each time she inhales too sharply. My thumb remains at the corner of her mouth, feeling the wetness there. She’s trying to steady herself – failing, but trying.

Harper watches from nearby, desperate and silent. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out. Behind me, the others stand rigid and uneasy – Mia clasping her elbows, Lian chewing the inside of her cheek, Juliette pale as bone, Aria’s expression hard and unreadable.

Isla’s fingers slowly rise to my forearm – not pushing me away but clutching at me like an anchor. Her nails bite into my skin. A tiny whimper escapes her before she can swallow it.

I ignore everyone else. Right now, there is only Isla – terrified, cornered, barely holding herself together.

"Listen to me.” I say. “One of you must volunteer to die. One of you has to make this decision."

I measure each word. Isla’s grip tightens until her fingers tremble from the strain. She opens her mouth, but only a shudder comes out.

Harper makes a strangled sound beside us. Her hands twist together so tightly her knuckles bleach white. Tears spill silently down her face.

Isla swallows hard, forcing out a hoarse whisper.

"Why… why does it have tae be me?"

I shake my head.

“It’s either you or Harper,” I answer. “Decide between yourselves.”

The words hit her like a physical strike. Her grip falters, then falls away completely as she steps back. Her green eyes flick to Harper – just for a second – then drop to the floor. Her lips tremble, pressed into a thin, desperate line.

Harper gasps - a raw, broken noise.

"No – wait, no." Her voice cracks. "We don't have to – you can't just-" She turns to me, pleading. "Please don't make us do this. Isn't there another way?"

I turn my head toward her.

"You already know the only other way is to kill you both."

Harper’s face drains of color. She staggers back, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, breath shaking through her.

Isla lets out a small, choked sound and brings both hands to her mouth. Tears stream down her freckled cheeks. When she finally looks at me again, the devastation there is almost unbearable. She turns slowly toward Harper, trembling from head to toe. After a moment’s hesitation, she extends her hand – barely more than a trembling offering. Harper stares at it, her breaths short and panicked. For a long moment, neither of them move.

Then, with a choked sob, Harper takes the offered hand. Her fingers tighten around it almost desperately.

"Isla... I can't..." she whispers, voice splintering.

Isla exhales shakily, squeezing back.

"It's okay," she says, though her voice wavers. She forces herself to meet Harper's eyes. "I... I think..."

The words stick in her throat. Harper watches her, horrified. Isla closes her eyes, gathers what little resolve she has, and forces the rest out in a trembling whisper.

"I think I want tae volunteer.”

Harper's grip on her hand tightens convulsively. Isla lifts her gaze to me, pain flickering across her face – then something settles behind her eyes. A hard, quiet resolve. Harper makes a small, wounded sound, like something vital has been torn loose inside her.

"No – wait, Isla, please don't-”

Isla squeezes Harper's hand again, more firmly this time. The tremor in her body doesn’t vanish, but it goes still, contained. Channeled. She breathes in, then out – steady in the way someone becomes only after deciding something terrible but final.

She turns to face me fully. Her chin lifts a fraction. Her spine straightens. The gesture has a quiet dignity to it, the kind that makes the room feel smaller.
"I'll do it," she says, speaking louder now.

Juliette freezes beside Isla, body rigid, fingers hovering as if she might reach out – but she doesn’t. Her lips part slightly, then press together. Her eyes widen, and her breath hitches. Slowly, the reality of what just happened sinks in. The protective anchor she found in Isla is gone, and the weight of that loss presses down. Her shoulders slump fractionally, and her eyes glisten with a quiet, stunned grief.

Isla speaks in the same tone she might use when telling a patient she needs a difficult procedure.

"I choose the drowner. The water – quick, aye? No pain, not really?" Her eyes dart to the machines behind the glass, and she swallows. “That one. I don’t want tae suffer.”

I look at Harper. “That’s now the second girl willing to die to save your life,” I say. “You must be special.”

Harper flinches as though I’ve struck her. All color drains from her face, leaving her freckles stark against her skin. Her grip on Isla tightens until her knuckles turn white, as if Isla is the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

"I'm not special," Harper whispers, barely audible. Her voice cracks, then fractures. "I'm just-" She cuts herself off with a shuddering breath.

Isla's fingers curl around Harper's, squeezing gently.

"You are," she says, quiet but steady.

Beside them, Juliette stands very still, one hand lifted toward Isla but not quite touching. Her throat works around a swallow. Her eyes glisten – not with dramatic tears but with the stunned, silent grief of someone who realized they’re about to lose the only person who made this place feel even remotely bearable. The girl looks suddenly even younger than she is, frighteningly alone.

I give a slow, measured nod toward Isla, acknowledging her choice. There’s a weight to it, a quiet respect for the courage it took to decide. Then I step back and gesture toward her.

“Say your goodbyes.”

Isla moves from girl to girl, speaking quietly to each one. She pauses before Juliette, standing close enough to touch but not quite doing so. The redhead's usually vibrant face is sallow, her freckles standing out like dark specks on pale parchment. Her green eyes – normally so bright and sharp – are dull with unshed tears.

Juliette's chest rises and falls rapidly as she watches Isla approach. Her arms wrap around herself instinctively, hugging her own body as if to hold herself together. When Isla stops before her, Juliette's lower lip quivers. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Tears spill down her face as she finally manages,

"Isla…"

Isla offers her a small, sad smile. Her hand lifts toward Juliette’s shoulder, hovering there.

"Hey, Juliette," she says softly.

Juliette makes a wounded sound deep in her throat. She lunges forward and wraps her arms around Isla, holding her fiercely. Her entire body shakes with silent sobs.

"I do not want you to leave."

Isla wraps her arms around her, just as tight. She presses her face into Juliette’s shoulder, tears slipping freely into the blonde’s hair. The other girls stand back, watching in tense silence, the space heavy with grief and helplessness.

"It's okay," she murmurs, stroking Juliette’s back in slow, steady motions. "It's... it's okay, lass"

The words come out rough, thick with unshed tears, but she speaks with a strange, quiet certainty.

Juliette pulls back just enough to look at her, her blue eyes red-rimmed and streaming. She sniffles, her hands still wrapped around Isla as if she can't bear to let go.

"No, it is not," she whispers fiercely.

Juliette presses her forehead against Isla's, her breath coming in shaky gasps. She speaks so quietly only Isla can hear.

"I'll miss you so much."

Isla brings her hands up to hold Juliette’s face gently, her thumbs brushing tears away with aching care.

"I'll miss ye too," she says, voice breaking slightly. "But... this is the way it has to be."

Juliette makes a choked sound and collapses into Isla’s shoulder again, clinging with desperate strength. Isla doesn't resist – she just holds Juliette tighter, her face buried in her friend's hair. The air is thick with salt and grief, with the quiet hitching of breath as both girls cling to each other like they're holding back the inevitable. The other girls stand motionless, witnessing this fragile moment with unsteady expressions.

After a long, terrible minute, Isla gently eases Juliette back. Her thumbs brush more tears from the girl’s face. They stare at each other, saying nothing, because neither of them trusts the sound of their own voice anymore.

"Isla, Harper - time to go."

My voice sounds dead even to my own ears. Juliette flinches as if the sound physically hits her. Her fingers clamp around Isla’s arm, desperate, digging in. Harper scrubs at her face roughly with her hand; Lian looks like she might be sick. Aria’s arms fold across her chest, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with a fury she doesn’t bother to hide.

Isla inhales sharply as I step forward, her body going rigid. Harper stands beside her like a puppet held up by strings.

Finally Isla squares her shoulders and gently frees her arm from Juliette’s grip, the girl’s fingers sliding off like they don’t want to let go.

"Okay," she says quietly and steady, but the tremor beneath the words gives her away.