The dungeon is no longer a prison. It's a battlefield. Not one fought with weapons, but with words, glances, carefully placed silences.
I've spent days observing him, studying the way he moves, the way his mind works. The God of Death is not reckless; he is precise, patient. He doesn't act without knowing exactly what will happen next. And that is why I have to be careful.
If I want to escape, I must make him believe I don't want to.
So I let myself become softer. I stop flinching when he steps too close. I let my words lose their sharp edges. I lower my eyes, not in fear, but in something close to submission. I give him exactly what he wants—control.
And it works.
At first, he watches me with suspicion. He waits for the fight in me to return, for the sharp-tongued defiance that made me a thorn in his side. But when it doesn't, when I remain quiet, thoughtful, accepting… he starts to lower his guard.
The dungeon door is unlocked more often now. The chains that once kept me bound have been replaced by something far more insidious—trust.
I allow small moments of vulnerability, enough to make him believe I am breaking. When he speaks to me, I listen with wide eyes, as if I am beginning to understand him. As if I see the world through his lens.
One night, I sit beside him in the vast hall of his palace, a place of darkness and grandeur. He speaks of the worlds he has seen, the souls he has collected. His voice is calm, unhurried.
"Do you know why I have never lost?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Because I never fight a battle I am unsure of winning," he says, his eyes gleaming. "Every war, every challenge... I step into them already knowing the outcome."
A test. A warning.
I meet his gaze, letting something hesitant flicker across my face. "Then why keep me here? What do you gain from this?"
He studies me for a long moment before leaning back, his expression unreadable. "I like watching you lose," he murmurs. "It's fascinating."
I let my lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. "Then I suppose I should stop fighting."
His eyes darken slightly. "Perhaps you should."
The words settle between us, heavy with meaning.
My hand tightens in my lap, hidden beneath the folds of my dress. The blade is there, waiting.
But not yet. Not yet.
I play my role perfectly. I walk the palace halls with him. I listen. I nod. I let him think I am slipping into his world, that I am becoming part of it.
And then, finally, the moment comes.
He turns his back to me.
And I reach for the knife.