A loud thump startled him awake.

Luric’s body reacted instinctively to the sound, curling up into a ball with both arms raised to shield his head from more blows. It took him a moment to realize he was still alone. No one had come to get him yet. A shaky sigh escaped his chapped lips, partly because of relief, partly because of anguish. He had barely woken up and already he was on the brink of tears again. But he was hurting all over, he was cold, he was hungry, and so, so scared.

They can’t do this, he thought pathetically.

There was some commotion coming from upstairs, people talking animatedly, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Though that might’ve been for the best. He didn’t want to hear what they planned on doing to him.

Luric sat up slowly, mindful of his broken ribs, and started to look around the room again. He had done so ever since they had locked him up down here, inspecting every nook and cranny of the cellar, turning over every object within his reach in hopes he could find something – anything - that could help him. If he didn’t come up with something soon-

I’m going to die.

It took every ounce of self-control to keep himself from dissolving into a wailing, trembling mess. He had to stay calm and make use of every second he had left until they came for him. He had to think of a plan. But nothing had changed since he had fallen asleep. Luric’s mind still drew a blank while his eyes searched the room from corner to corner.

 There was nothing in here that he could use; just an old, rotten stand with shelves full of nothing but cracked and empty pottery, a bunch of moldy, wooden boards thrown haphazardly in one corner, and large wine casks that he couldn’t open and were too heavy to lift.

The only remotely useful thing he had found was a rusty hammer, but his enthusiasm swiftly dropped when it became clear that he had no way of holding it. They hadn’t been content with only shackles around his wrists, so they stuffed his hands inside a thick leather bag filled with linen bathed in holy water. To keep him from sprouting claws, they said. He didn’t even know how to do that. Same with his teeth. Priest Santr had taken another piece of cloth, drenched it in holy water, and shoved it so far down his throat he was afraid he was going to throw up and then suffocate. To keep his fangs from growing back, they said. He didn’t know how to do that either.

Then they had tied his mouth to keep the cloth there and thrown him in the prayhouse's cellar. But not before giving him another beating. The priest had been against it, but only because he was afraid the men - his assailants - could catch something by touching him. Apparently, he was also contagious, and could leave them cursed. Luric wished he knew how to do that.

There was one more item down here with him, but he didn’t even consider going near it. Couldn’t even bring himself to look at it properly. He didn’t want to see the stern, condemning eyes stare back at him. The painting was obviously very old, with the colors having faded away for the most part, but the figures depicted there would still be immediately recognizable to any Alcsenian. Sitting on his throne and judging silently was Protector Baar, with the young Suin on his right, and wise old Meherth on his left. He knew this image better than the back of his hand; it was found in almost every book at school, on icons in every household in Runrick, on all four walls of their prayhouse. This image used to be so commonplace, a constant presence as familiar as it was frequent. All his life, grown-ups had told him that when in need, to look towards Protector Baar for guidance, towards Suin for courage, and Meherth for wisdom. Now they told him that he had no right to do so; no right to ask for protection because he was something the Three Great Men protected real people from. Lord Baar wasn’t his protector, not anymore. He was his executioner.

The voices were clearer now, closer, accompanied by the sound of heavy, stomping footsteps growing louder and louder. They were coming for him.

Panicking, Luric looked once more around the room and made a decision. He quickly approached the stand, found the largest, heaviest vase, held it between his forearms, lifted it up, and smashed it against the floor. He then examined the broken pieces of ceramic and chose the sharpest fragment he could find. He maneuvered it with his feet, holding it up with the blunter side pointing towards him, and pushed it against the thick leather bag tied around his hands. He pushed lightly, trying not to have the piece break apart even more, until he could feel the intrusion through the thick materials, and had his fingers clamp around it as hard as he could to keep it steady. The sharp, pointy edge sticking outward.

The wave of relief he felt at this tiny accomplishment was abruptly cut short with the resounding clank of the cellar door being unlocked.

Luric’s first thought was to hide, but his only options were to either huddle behind the wooden stand or crouch between the casks. And he knew it would be pointless, because the entry was well above the basement floor, atop of a staircase, giving them a good view of the entire room. It would be foolish to think that they wouldn’t be able to spot him easily in a few seconds, and those extra seconds would serve no purpose other than to anger them even more. No, the only measly chance he had was to take them by surprise, which meant not retreating, as they probably expected him to, but attacking.

He ran up the stairs and went right to the door. He kneeled so he wouldn’t immediately be in their line of sight. Luric knew he wasn’t being fueled by courage, but by fear and desperation. And anger. He hadn’t paid attention to it before, - too much pain and grief stifling everything else - but it was there. With each shaky breath he took he became more and more aware of it, and the harder he focused on the jagged end of the shard sticking out of the leather bag, the hotter it burned inside his chest. He tightened his hands even more, making sure his hold was firm, so that he could deliver a proper thrust.

He briefly wondered who it was going to be. Was it Piltrim that was unlocking the door? He had been the one with the key last time. He had stood quietly by the side as the others beat him, before locking him up. He hoped it was Baliger. That hideous man had been the most eager with the thrashing, not even caring what the priest had said about potentially catching a curse. Luric had heard people say Baliger was not right in the head, and now Luric got to see – and feel – the depths of his depravity up close.  Why was he not down here, tied up? The man had actually enjoyed beating the shit out of Luric when they caught him. Had even tried to convince everyone to hand Luric over to him, so that he’d gut him open, like he did with his pigs before winter. Yes, he hoped it was Baliger. 

Whoever it ended up being, they would have to use both hands to push the heavy door open, which left the stomach an easy target. If he could manage to wound the first person enough so that they’d fall over and cause the others to jump back in fear at the sight of him, then he could try to make a run for it before they’d get their bearings. He was lucky they hadn’t thought to tie his legs as well. He’d always been a good runner; he was one of the faster kids in Runrick and even wounded, he doubted there were any adults that could keep up with him at full speed. He only had to reach the woods before they caught him; no one would follow him in there so close to nightfall. Not anymore.