The guard checks my anti-magic cuffs before shoving me into a dark cell I haven’t spent time in yet. With no window, the air is stagnant and ripe with memories of the last victim. But they don’t know I don’t need a window to escape.
I half listen to my charges. Obstruction of justice, perceived support of the rebellion, the usual. Though the illegal use of magic is new. When did the king add that one to his forever-changing laws? He’s just a bastard scrambling to maintain his fragile hold on power, and I suppress a grin at the idea of his gutted face when he finally loses it all.
The guard fumes at my lack of care, and maybe he’ll follow me in here like the last one. I resist fidgeting. Broken bones won’t stop me from escaping, but they’ll hurt and slow me down, and the rebellion’s next mission needs my flavor of magic.
The guard finally slams my door and storms off, and I stretch.
With a quick bite to my finger, I rub the dribbling blood along the cuffs. Their chill turns hot as the weak charm fights against the invasion, but soon the cuffs fall from my wrist. I wipe off the blood and toss them aside. Magic hums in my veins, flowing through me once more, and I relish the power longer than necessary and teleport.
Maybe my eleventh arrest they’ll realize I’m immune to their anti-magic. They’ve got to figure it out . . . eventually. Right?
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