It wasn't the leader of the Phantom mercenaries who scared her the most.

Her cell had been cramped before half of its ceiling collapsed in the middle of the night—or perhaps it had been in the middle of the day. She had, by some god's graces, been sleeping in the other corner of the cell when that awful noise reached her ears—worse than fingernails grating against a chalkboard. Like a giant, metallic, earthen yawn, slabs of the ceiling had caved in, much like how a roof does under relentless rainstorms, and then there was a creak, groan, hiss, as half of the foundation of the ceiling jutted like protruding bones.

She had been jolted awake by those terrible sounds. Slumped over to the side, her head propped up by her largest tome and her bum numb from the unforgiving ground, all she could do while her hell turned worse was scuttle further into her corner—her corner, since it was the only one the shackles around her wrists and ankles permitted her to reach—and wait.

Wait for the dust to settle, wait for the powder of concrete, metal, and rock to suffocate her, wait for the muffled sounds of shouts and rushed footfalls to fade away as her lungs filled and filled with—

Something fumbled with her wrists and ankles, and the pressing weight of the shackles released. Oh, Mavis be blessed and glorious; this was it. She was weightless, she was flying and falling and tumbling all at once, and she was free. She had always been curious about that white light every fleeting soul saw before they found their eternal peace: how bright was it? did it fade in gradually, or was it a sudden burst? was it really white?

Hers began as white, and then it stripped to a peachy color, then orange, and then tan.

Weight on her chest—but why?—and slender, gentle yet firm, fingers prying her mouth open. For a moment, or maybe an hour, her mind disconnected from her body. She was in a dark place, a place where nothing could touch her, and the shouts and yells and even the smells of the ruin were muffled, as if she was underwater.

And she couldn't breathe. It should have scared her; she should have been clawing and fighting for her lungs to fill with air, but no. She just fell further, finding comfort in the dark waters of her fading mind. This was alright; she could stay like this, so long as her senses stayed numb. It was alright, she convinced herself, she could settle with this nothingness surrounding her.

Then pain. Flares racing up her ribcage, spiriting her away from that safe place, that dark place. The pressure on her sternum increased, demanding that she jolt and flinch and gasp and breathe.

She did. Mouth flying open, tongue darting around in her mouth, she croaked and gulped and fought for that precious air. Her throat burned, the humid and stagnant air of the ruins scorching through her body, and her hands tore at the collar of her stained button-down in a frantic attempt for more of that burning, life-giving air.

Desierto was a country aptly named, but down here, in what she suspected was an ancient, long-forgotten kingdom, the air was positively scalding.

Her croaks dimmed to labored panting. Her coughs and gulps were almost enough to drown out the angry mercenaries yelling and scurrying about, but not quite. She hadn't opened her eyes since she awoke, she realized, and it wasn't until she felt the lip of a canteen press against her bottom lip that she peeked one eye open.

How she regretted it! The dust on her eyelashes made her eye sting and water enough to leave streaks down her sooty cheeks. She blinked furiously, hating herself for showing such a display in front of these people, for that was what they were: despite how they treated her, despite their taunts and abuse, despite the fact that they had stolen her and her very way of life, they were still people.

Through the haze of her stinging eyes, she saw a face peering at hers. Wide, ocean-blue eyes stared into the depths of her hazel ones. A concerned line creased in this woman's brow. Those cool fingers smoothed her hair away from the canteen.

"Wastin' water on that one, Juvia!" a gruff voice barked. The woman, Juvia, didn't bat an eye while she supported the prisoner's head. She helped their captive wrap her fingers around the canteen, and when she was certain she would not drop it, Juvia lowered her hand. A snort from the man, and then, "She thirsty, then keep her mouth open. I got somethin' for her, alright—"

Without looking away from their captive, Juvia's palm latched onto the man, right in between his legs, and squeezed. Gasping, he shook and raised his arms.

"It would be most appreciated," Juvia said coolly, "if Boze did not speak to Juvia or their guest in such a manner." Her knuckles tightened, and a soprano shrill erupted from Boze's gaping mouth. She released him when his screech pitched up an octave. Ignoring his swears and staggering, Juvia lowered the prisoner's head to the ground and asked in a voice much too concerned, "Are you alright, miss?"

The captive's eyes swept to hers. She squinted her hazel eyes, she furrowed her brow, and the corner of her mouth turned downward. How in Mavis's name was she to answer such a question?

Juvia, however, nodded, apparently finding some satisfactory response, and brushed a lock of oily hair from the captive's brow. Juvia's own appearance was not much better than the captive's; the still, humid air of the ruin had her cheeks and brow flushed, her hair frizzing at the crown of her head, the curled ends of her hair in tangles, and her nose and upper lip shining with sweat. Unlike the captive, though, Juvia was not nearly skin and bones.

Her wrists and ankles weren't rubbed raw, either.

"Well, shit," Boze grumbled. He kept more than an arm's length away from Juvia while he watched his comrades scramble about the ruined cell. His hands covered his groin after Juvia flicked her gaze to him. "That was the only place we could keep 'er. The hell we gonna put her now? Not like we cleared the lower levels of the ruin or anything," he snorted.

A moment passed. Boze still muttered, rotating between hoisting his hands on his hips and scratching the back of his head, and edged away from his comrade. Juvia remained, a silent sentinel, until quiet footsteps reached her ears. Capping the canteen, she tucked it into her coat where it was out of sight. She stood, her every movement fluid and precise, and inclined her head.

"Master Jose," she said. The mercenaries still bickering and scurrying about halted all sound and stood on either side of the hall. Boze did his best to straighten his spine and kept his eyes to the cracked, ancient floor.

Upon hearing those dreaded words, the captive squeezed her eyes shut.

Master Jose, tailed several paces behind by four other mercenaries, took his time descending the staircase to their level of the ruin as if its halls were crafted just for him. The passage was lit by only a handful of dim torches. The floor was uneven with several jutting slabs and outcroppings of rock, and the walls were twisted with vines and moss. In every corner, a spider web, and in every hidden nook and cranny, a deathtrap. It was a sorry sight, this ruin.

It wasn't the ruin that terrified the captive; she had been in ancient crypts before. It wasn't the smell, the heat, or the knowledge that the ceiling could crush them at any time and place. It wasn't even Master Jose and his carved staff ending in a hideous, stretched mouth resembling the horrific specter after which his mercenaries were so aptly named—that staff tapped against the floor in time with his footsteps, and every tap brought him closer.

No. Master Jose did not frighten her. It was the man at his elbow who made her wish that she had been chained to the opposite wall of her cell.

She bit her lip and dug her grimy fingers into the floor. This man, Master Jose's iron-fisted pet, somehow absorbed shadow itself and wore the darkness like a second skin. He angled himself away from the torches, and the light bended around him.

"Master Jose," Juvia repeated. The Phantom leader stopped only a few feet away. With his coat pushed back from his hip, his revolver glinted in the firelight to remind his men who commanded them. He raised a sleek brow at the scene before him: his mercenaries standing at attention, Boze avoiding all eye contact, and the plume of dust still rising from the collapsed cell. Master Jose appraised Juvia for a moment, and then a revealing grin slithered on his mouth.

"Juvia, my dear." The captive cringed. His voice was like curdled milk mixed with venom. "Again, your speed and strength have saved the day." He tilted Juvia's chin. "Even though," he mused, his voice curling into a sneer, "you were not the one assigned to her cell." He patted her shoulder, giving her permission to nod in acceptance of the praise, and then focused on Boze.

Boze had a darker complexion, one that was able to mask the effects of the humidity. His cheeks flushed for other reasons, and the purple, tattered scarf wrapped around his head did nothing to keep the sweat from dripping down his temples and nose. Boze stared at his boots and clenched his sweaty palms into fists.

Their prisoner managed to open an eye—her good eye, since the other was still coated in dust—and tried to take in her surroundings. From where Jose stood, she could only see his boots, but behind him, just off to the side, she could see the full profile of him, Jose's iron pet. Her heart flew into her throat when his red, reptilian eyes were trained on her. The rivets lining his brows were pulled into a frown, causing dark lines to form beneath his eyes and on either side of the pierced bridge of his nose.

He was studying her, she realized; he was looking at her like she was an unexpected result of an experiment. His mouth wasn't pulled into a sneer or smirk; only his eyes betrayed his emotions. What she wanted was for those eyes to look away so that she could find air again. He blinked when Jose hissed something—an order—and his expression twisted so that his eyes blazed in morbid anticipation and his sharp canines gleamed. With his eyes trained forward, she could breathe again, and she took in a shuddering gulp. She didn't know why—she was free of his iron-red gaze—but her eye flicked once more to him.

His steps were silent as he walked by her. His face was partially hidden by shadows and his long, tangled hair that was blacker than midnight, but he met her wandering eye.

What she saw, oh Mavis what she saw, was a truth that she knew he did not want anyone to see. He looked at her briefly, like he never meant to, and then from the corner of his eye, looked back at Jose. It was subtle, but just the crinkling of his temple spoke volumes of where his true allegiance lay.

Boze's shallow explanations went unheard—how was I supposed to know the ceiling would come down? Damn broad didn't even make a peep! I-I just had to take a piss—and Jose's iron prize continued to stalk forward. The sounds of nasal bones cracking and Boze's screech resounded in the dimly lit hallway, followed by the jerking thud of a knee slamming into his gut.

Jose purred his praise and admired his pet's work for a moment. The captive didn't see it, as her good eye was squeezed shut, but she felt it: bony fingers threaded through her greasy hair, gripped, and pulled—

She shouted from the heat searing across her scalp and bit her lip to keep quiet. Hearing the Phantom leader chuckle in amusement, she bit down hard enough to draw blood. His elbow jerked forward, and she stumbled, tripping on her own calloused, bare feet, into two steadying arms.

Her name is Juvia.

She thought it was over for now, but the heat on her scalp stabbed into a molten bolt. Gasping, her scream lodged in her throat when her blood rushed through her skull and pounded in her ears.

Jose smoothed the torn pieces of her hair and mused, "My, my. An unusual color, this is, just like my dear Juvia's." The corner of his mouth turned up, and one eye squinted in fascination. He twisted the hair around his index finger. "Juvia," he said, and upon hearing the command in his voice, she nodded. "Be a dear and find somewhere for our guest to stay. We want our dear Miss McGarden to be comfortable now, don't we?"

Inclining her head again, Juvia escorted the prisoner down the hall, pulling her close so that she supported most of her meager weight. Her skull pulsing and screaming after every slight bob of her head, the prisoner ground her teeth together and choked back a sob. She hobbled alongside this Juvia, knowing that the mercenary was giving her plenty of time to move at her own pace.

Behind her, Jose was giving orders for his men to recover any surviving tomes in the ruined cell; he was no longer interested in his captive or pet. Miss McGarden knew she had to move passed him, and her heart constricted in its cage when she felt the weight of those horrible red eyes on her again, burning her more than her abused scalp.

Oh, no indeed: it was not the leader of the Phantom mercenaries who scared her so.

Juvia stopped in a chamber with a large, arched ceiling. Rusted chandeliers hung from the metal buttresses, their candles having been unlit for centuries. The majority of the room was bathed in muted oranges and blues, as if the dust and cobwebs drowned out all vibrancy. Some of the pillars in the room were either collapsed or cracked, and the iron pews were red with rust. The pews that survived the ages were arranged in shapes resembling horseshoes, and there were two curved staircases—one having been rendered unnavigable due to pillars breaking most of the steps—leading to a dais at the far end of the room. Torn tapestries were tacked to the walls and ceiling, and behind the dais on an archway was a banner that stretched from either side of the room, but whatever insignia it used to detail was eaten away by time and, presumably, fire.

Miss McGarden knew where they were—this had to be the place, no matter what her colleagues may have said to her if they knew where she was. Her ancient texts described this antechamber thoroughly. This ruin was the former capital city Karma of the fabled Ferroc, the ruling kingdom before borders were drawn to create what was modernly known as Desierto. Every time she had pored over the tome describing Karma, she could feel the pride the author must have felt when writing about his beloved home.

Karma was the capital, a precious metal in its own right. But what was far more stunning was the fact that Karma was the capital of the Kingdom of Ferroc, a civilization thought to be a myth.

But Miss McGarden knew better, even if those stuffy scholars back at the museum would have sighed and rolled their eyes at her.

This antechamber where Juvia brought her used to be a hub for all inhabitants of the capital, back when spiders and rats and roaches didn't constitute the total population. The chandeliers would have been lit, giving the room a warm glow. Vendors would have been stationed in the corners, selling light refreshments, and the citizens would have been buzzing about, greeting friends and neighbors and hearing the latest news from the crier at his podium.

For the mercenaries, though, this was just a place to set up camp.

Juvia placed her down a handful of meters away from the mercenaries. Miss McGarden grappled against the pillar for support, and Juvia slowly helped rest her head against the concrete. She sighed when she was off her feet, but before she could feel too much relief, the stinging bite of iron against her chafed wrists and ankles reminded her of her circumstances.

"I am sorry, miss," Juvia said in a low voice. The cuffs were not as tight as her other ones, but it was all Miss McGarden could do not to whimper at the feel of the unforgiving metal. Juvia paused, contemplating whether or not to chain her shackles around the pillar. Ultimately, she decided against it, and nodded. "Rest now." Leaving, Juvia walked back to the hall, no doubt to report to her master. It was then that Miss McGarden noticed the belt holding sleek, lethal stilettos wrapped around her waist. At her hip was also a pistol.

Sleep was a sporadic thing and a concept Miss McGarden couldn't comprehend at the time. It could be night, maybe morning or afternoon, but she couldn't tell; they were too far deep in the ruin to enjoy any daylight. Resting against the pillar, she tested opening her other eye, only to wince when it stung and watered. Carefully, she tugged her bandana over her bad eye. The fabric was dirty and coarse, but at least it hid the sight from the mercenaries. She leaned against the pillar, frowning when her back cracked, and pulled her legs toward herself. Slipping her fingers between the cuffs and her ankles, she stroked the sore skin and willed the dull throbbing away.

That was wishful thinking. The raw marks flared, and she hissed and settled with squeezing her dirty toes to ignore the pain. Schooling her breaths, she glanced around the bedrolls to make sure none of the mercenaries saw her. They were too busy murmuring amongst themselves to pay her any mind, thank Mavis, and she sighed in relief. Her breath hitched in her throat when she saw that she was mistaken; one mercenary—when did he enter the antechamber?—had his eyes nailed to her.

Him.

He stood on the other side of the room, across from her and with the mercenaries between them. He was why his comrades were so hush-hush; he was sent there by his master to keep order. She shrank back against her pillar, praying that the ground would swallow her whole. Her scalp stung from putting more pressure on it, and she swore she felt a bump forming on the back of her head. Whereas he was leaning in shadow, she was huddled in firelight, and she hated how he could see her every move.

He was watching her rub her sore feet, hands, and head. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. He was the one who had chained her before, who had locked her away in that cursed cell. If he'd chosen the opposite corner to chain her, she'd be dead.

The idea almost made her snort. Almost.

Her thoughts took a dark turn. Was he studying her to find weaknesses? He needn't look for too long. She'd read documentaries about animals being sacrificed to appease higher beings or village leaders, and that was exactly what she felt like: a sacrifice. She just wished that instead of looking at her like that, he'd get on with his cruelty and just, for Mavis's sake, end it.

She was interrupted by someone clearing their throat, and she tore her gaze away from the iron pet to look up at the man next to her. Dried blood coated his nose and chin, and his purple bandana was stained red. Bruises were forming on his nose and jaw. Boze—that was his name, yes. She gasped when he dropped an armful of books in front of her. Scrambling to make sure none of the pages were ruined, she almost didn't hear Boze grumble at her.

"You listenin' to me?" he barked. Her shoulders jumped, and he rolled his eyes and knelt in front of her. He punched his fist next to her ankle, and she scooted as far back as possible. "Master wants to move onto the next level tomorrow, so you're gonna tell us what the hell we should be expectin' past that door," he said, tilting his head to a heavy set of doors just beyond the dais. "You've got until then, pumpkin. Maybe you can keep the roof above you this time, huh?" Boze had hoped to see her eyes widen in fear, but instead, he was met with an angry pout and shaking fists at her sides.

Her brow was pulled into a fierce, determined expression, and he'd be damned but the little chit was asking for a beating, and his thudding nose and bruised ribs were more than enough incentive to dish out a little revenge.

"Fine," she bit out, and immediately set to hunching over her references. She saw Boze's body coil, his elbow pulling back, but he halted his motions. He looked over his shoulder, and judging by the gasp he made, she presumed he noticed his master's pet sulking in the darkness. Gritting his teeth, Boze climbed to his feet and trudged over to his fellow mercenaries, sparing her a few curses along the way.

Miss McGarden chanced looking up from her tomes, her eyes only needing a second to find his, and her stomach twisted. He wasn't looking at her; rather, he was staring Boze down. His gaze was hard enough to pierce through steel, and her imaginative mind pictured Boze's chest erupting in bullet holes.

But Boze had just squatted with his men, and they clanked their flasks together. Calming her raging heartbeat, she nodded and bent over her books.

She had her notes detailed, now. Worrying her bottom lip, she checked and triple checked the journals, articles, biographies, and history books. Most of what interested her was what Karma used to be like, back when Ferroc was in its golden—rather, steel—age: its main exported goods were ores and weapons, since the surrounding mountains and crags were rich with metals; the different holidays the people celebrated, most in honor of innovation and how much they valued and respected a beautiful, intelligent human mind; and, most importantly, the language.

The autobiographies that had survived the centuries were written in light script. She suspected that time had a hand in fading the ink, but she also had an inkling that the Ferrians, the people of Ferroc, spoke a language typically written with gentle hands. It was odd: she and her captors had ventured past broken forges, pipes, gears, and gizmos, and yet she had large suspicions that despite the skills in metalworking, welding, blacksmithing, and carpentry, the Ferrians were gentle.

They valued literature, an art that was quickly becoming replaced with science, technology, engineering, and mathematics in this day and age. It was encouraging for her to learn that such paragons of weaponry had silver tongues.

Of course, whenever she had tried to explain this to her colleagues back at the Museum of Antiquities in Oro, the capital of Desierto, she'd gotten quite the laugh from them. She was grasping at straws, the other scholars said, and chasing fairy tales. The owner of the museum and a fellow historian had told her that since nursery rhymes painted the ancient Ferrians as aggressive, and there was no evidence suggesting that the supposed civilization was anything otherwise, it was difficult to prove them as versatile. Any translations she'd done on what she swore were Ferrian texts were brushed aside; the historians had reasoned that a writer's thoughts were one thing, and tangible evidence was another altogether. Even worse, there was always the niggling argument of Ferroc ever existing; no excavation had ever turned up enough evidence to prove that Ferroc was even an ancient civilization.

Until now.

She hadn't realized she'd been smiling, or that the expression felt so odd on her mouth. Idly, she chewed on a thumb nail and murmured to herself. Her eyes glued to the page, she didn't see the pair of boots in front of her.

They shifted a bit, as if the person to whom they belonged was uncertain, and then finally, they nudged against her book. Blinking away the realm of ironworks and steel, she glanced up. Following the boots to the khakis shoved in them, to the belt and bullwhip at the hip, the fingerless gloves, the sleeveless leather vest covering a partially buttoned, collared shirt, the dark shemagh wrapped around his neck, to—

Mavis, no. Once her eyes landed on the first piercing on his chin, she stared at whatever page she'd turn to. She knew how to read the soft script of the Ferrians, but for the life of her, she couldn't understand the page. Her mouth dried, and for long seconds, she forgot how to breathe. From her peripherals, she saw his arm move, and she steeled herself. An image of Boze's bruised, bloody nose flashed through her mind, and for a moment the room started to tip.

Then she righted herself. There was no pain. Inhaling and ignoring her pounding heart, she managed to bring her gaze in front of her.

Bread. He was holding a chunk of bread. Tilting her head, she dared herself to follow his arm up to his face, and there, she had to stop. His head was turned toward the ceiling, his eyes blown wide, and his nostrils flared. A jolt of fear pierced her heart at the thought of yet another collapse, and she peered to see what caught his attention. Frowning when nothing seemed out of the ordinary, she glanced back at him. This was taxing him, she concluded after tilting her head the other way. He was completely aware of his presence, of how his shadow loomed over and swallowed her whole, and yet…

And yet he inched the bread closer to her.

Her lungs screamed at her to make him leave, to make him go back in his dark corner to sulk and be far away from her, but all that came out of her mouth was a croaked, "What is it?" She bit her lip when his eyes darted to hers. Knowing that she'd been caught staring at him, she stared at the piece of bread instead. A whiff from her nose told her that it was indeed time for a meal; the mercenaries were circled around a small fire in the antechamber, and the smell of cooking meat wafted through the chamber. Some of them must have gone back to the surface to hunt. Her traitorous stomach grumbled out a symphony, and she hunched her shoulders.

"Food." His voice reminded her of the times she'd stumble about her room in the middle of the night, and after taking a clumsy step, found something sharp stuck in her foot. His voice was all rough gravel and thick darkness. The curious, albeit damned, part of her brain wondered if he gargled with bolts and nails. "Ya eat it."

"I can't eat that," she said in a whoosh of breath. Then, without her permission, added, "I know what you do with food."

"That right?" She didn't see the corner of his mouth twitch when her stomach grumbled again. "Had me fooled. Ya haven't eaten in two days, short stack."

"I can't eat those either," she stammered. He was quiet, and then she realized he was waiting for something. Her mouth was faster than her brain, and she repeated, quietly, "Short stack?"

She heard the smirk in his next words. "Fresh outta those." This time, she held her tongue. He shifted on his feet. "Either you take it from me, or I force feed you. Yer choice."

She lowered her head, an action that made him purse his lips and frown. She cursed herself for wanting to explain. The iron pet didn't care for excuses; he only wanted his will made true. Maybe it was the scholar in her that urged her to explain. Maybe it was herself, for his eyes burned her with their displeasure. Or maybe it was him and his stubborn resolution that egged her on. "I can't eat bread," she said quietly.

He snorted and moved the bread side to side in front of her. This is what she expected from him: this taunting behavior so common amongst the mercenaries. "Scared you'll lose yer girlish figure?"

"I can't digest it," she said quickly. Her eyes were locked on his, and judging how he looked at her cheeks, she knew he saw her face flushing. "I can't digest it," she said again in a much shakier voice. And it was true: whenever she'd eat bread, her gut would become a twisted, pulling knot within the hour. It was why she was all skin and bones in this ancient city. The mercenaries only gave her stale bread as food, and she'd only nibbled before those horrible cramps, the jabbing pain, the awful, awful misery of intestinal blockage began.

Just the thought of bread made her abdomen tighten in discomfort. Worse than that was the fact that she'd just given the pet a new toy to bat around and destroy.

He looked between her and the bread, and then inclined his head in—understanding? "The wheat?" Another pause, and then, "Ya got an allergy?"

"Sensitivity," she corrected softly. Her cheeks were as red as his eyes, most likely, and she burned holes into her tome. The chains linking her cuffs clinked together while she idly twisted her fingers. She wanted to elaborate; she knew not many people had a sensitivity to wheat, and she'd received her fair share of confused stares after admitting her digestive problem to her friends. "If I eat that—"

"Huh." He lowered his arm. She was taken aback by his tone. He wasn't angry or dubious. No, beneath the gravel was curiosity. It gave her the courage to look at him, and when she did, she wished that courage had died in her previous cell.

His posture was entirely rigid. In the blink of an eye, the tension was gone from his shoulders. He bit into the bread, smirking around the doughy middle. A sharp canine flashed, and he raised his chin so that she was forced to crane her neck further. "Gihi," he grunted in a mockery of a laugh. "That's too bad, shrimp," he sneered around another bite. The sound of Jose's cane tapping against the floor reached her ears, and she tented her brow. She caught the way he glanced at the Phantom master, that tic starting in his temple again.

The bread was thick in his throat, and for a moment, judging by her owlish stare, she looked like she was on the verge of solving a puzzle.

He couldn't afford that, now.

Jutting the toe of his boot in the dirt, he quickly captured her attention again when he dirtied her torn trousers further. Sporting that ruthless, toothy grin—the one that made severe shadows and lines cover his face—he dropped what was left of the bread at her feet like it was a soiled kerchief needing to be discarded.

He turned on his heel. His gait was smooth, even if his shoulders were raised in a subtle hunch, and he sat beside Juvia on the far side of the room. His fellow mercenary murmured something to him, which earned a quiet snort. To their left, a good distance away, was Jose. The Phantom leader idly twirled locks of blue hair around his fingers while examining his captive. Judging by the gleam in his eye and the curl of his thin lips, he was pleased with his pet's work.

Gritting her teeth, Miss McGarden blinked hard at the sight of the bread. Her hands balling into fists at her feet, she raised her chin toward the iron pet. His mouth moved, and something glinted between his teeth. She willed her eyes to drill through him. Making sure he was looking at her, for she could tell that he had some curiosity locked away in his prison of darkness, she sucked in a breath, took the bread in hand, and bit into it.

A wee twig of fear snapped away after seeing the whites of his eyes flash in surprise. The bolt he'd been idly prodding about his mouth slipped from his lips and landed beside Juvia's foot with a dull, metallic thud.

The mercenaries settled down to rest with a few members staying awake to keep watch. Some retreated to a different room while others kept an eye on her. She lay on her side, curled in on herself, with her back to the mercenaries. She wanted to sleep—Mavis knew she did—but with her gut roiling and her intestines twisting in spasms, sleep was an impossible feat. It felt as if someone had shoved a fork down her digestive system; everything hurt. Her abdomen, the small of her back, behind her ribs where her organs pulsed and pushed against each other in distress—all of it hurt.

She didn't dare make a peep. She wanted to groan, to wail, to do anything to ease this bloated spiral in her body. She needed to let out something, and if her intestines couldn't do it, at least her voice could. Maybe she'd been like this for twenty minutes, thirty minutes, an hour, but it felt like she'd have to endure this for the whole night, or day, or evening, or whatever time it was.

Why had she gone and eaten that stupid baked lump of wheat? Mavis be witness, Miss McGarden was an idiot. Biting the inside of her cheek and screwing her eyes shut, she held herself tighter and tried to control her uneven breaths.

Time stretched and yawned. The antechamber became full with the mercenaries' snores and snuffles. Miss McGarden clutched her sides. The spasms were finally starting to ebb. Tentatively, she rubbed her stomach, careful not to agitate it. A relieved sigh slipped passed her lips, and she cursed herself when she heard a shuffling sound from behind her. She hoped it wasn't Boze who had heard her. If it was any of the mercenaries coming to investigate her, she hoped it was Juvia. The thought made her uncomfortable, as she'd come to identify compassion in the enemy. She reminded herself that enemy or not, mercenary or not, they were human.

She hoped that the mercenary was just stretching their legs or maybe going to answer Nature's call.

Miss McGarden should have learned by now that hoping and wishing were useless, petty things. She didn't hear the mercenary approach, but she saw their shadow cover her. She was thankful for the bandana still hiding her bad eye, and her good eye was pressed into the palm of her hand. There was a small scratching sound, and then the shadow was replaced with the light of the torch nearby.

She caught herself before she turned over. No. She could wait a little longer to be sure that they were gone. Her patience was already thin, ushered away by her thumping heart, and so she carefully rolled over onto her stomach. The movement was meant to look natural, and she hoped that she fooled anyone who happened to be watching her. Turning her head the smallest fraction, she puffed her cheeks in confusion.

A small bundle of jerky was within arm's reach, and next to it, scrawled in the dirt, was one word.

Eat.

A/N: This is my first take on a Fairy Tail story. This will have some darkish themes to it, but it isn't going to be a depressing dirge. This was heavily inspired by Indiana Jones, The Mummy, Tomb Raider, and National Treasure (I think there's a theme going on), but it will be loosely based off of these; I'm still putting in my own ideas, after all! :)

I won't be able to update this as often as I would like to (I wake up before the crack of dawn and get home after the sun has set for work), so I'm a tired person. That being said, I hope you understand and enjoy the story! Thank you, and as always, leave some feedback! :)