Step One: Talk to the furniture.
I turned to the corner. "Good morning, noble stool. You have the most regal legs in the room. Do you come here often?"
No response.
"Hard to get, huh? I like that."
Step Two: Fashion a companion out of potion ingredients.
I grabbed some dried herbs, a couple of spoons, a cork, and a rag.
Five minutes later, "Sir Gloop" was born—an aggressively lumpy humanoid figure with a head that smelled faintly of lavender and mild regret.
"You're looking rather dashing today, Sir Gloop," I said, bowing.
He stared at me with dead button eyes.
"You're right. We should stage a coup."
Step Three: Create an alchemical reaction just to see what explodes.
I took a few leftover herbs, added some unstable powder, sprinkled a dash of optimism, and stirred it all in an empty flask.
It burped once, hissed loudly, and then shot a thin jet of purple fire straight into the ceiling.
I blinked.
"…Oops."
The ceiling remained unscathed. Of course it did. Reinforced by the legendary blacksmith. No escape there.
Step Four: Sing. Loudly. Off-key. Dramatically.
I threw my arms wide and bellowed,🎵 "Oh freeeedooooom! My looooove! Come baaaack to meeeee!" 🎵
Even Sir Gloop tilted his head away, embarrassed.
Step Five: Attempt an unauthorized magical circle.
I scratched a rough sigil into the floor using some spilled powder. It looked a little like a summoning rune and a little like a very confused chicken.
I chanted nonsense with all the confidence of a fraud:
"Shamboola-doola... trizzata-ka-ZAP! Bring me... a cheeseburger!"
Nothing happened.
"...Yeah, I figured."
Finally, after hours of descending into increasingly desperate madness, I slumped against the wall, a wild-haired mess of boredom and potion fumes.
"This is it," I muttered. "The end of the line. My last resort."
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a pencil stub and a scrap of paper, and with the solemnity of a monk writing his final words, I scrawled:
HELP. IMPRISONED BY POTIONS. SEND CAKE.
I rolled it into a tight tube, tied it to Sir Gloop's stubby arm, and pointed him at the door.
"Godspeed, Sir Gloop. May the winds of fate guide you."
He fell over.
"…Close enough."
I sighed, dramatically sprawled on the floor like a tragic heroine. "If Master Vod were here… at least I'd be entertained while everything exploded."
Silence.
Then the cauldron burped.
Sir Gloop caught fire.
And I—well—I just laid there, watching the smoke curl up into the air, wondering if I could marry freedom.
A sudden breeze stirred the air, light and playful—completely unnatural.
I froze. There's no window in here. No vents either. My gaze darted across the sealed room. The walls were solid, unyielding stone. The only opening was the heavy iron-barred door, which remained firmly shut.
'And yet... the wind danced in.'
Sir Gloop's smoldering remains—bits of singed cloth, wilted herbs, and a charred button—rose gently into the air like a ghost taking flight.
"NOOOOO!! SIR GLOOP!!!"
I leapt forward in a dramatic lunge, arms outstretched, trying to rescue the dancing flecks of his powdered remains. But the breeze—mysterious and oddly theatrical—carried him just beyond reach, twirling his ashy bits through the cell bars and into the corridor beyond.
I slammed into the bars with a gasp. My hands curled around the cold iron as I watched Sir Gloop's final voyage float to rest a few steps outside the cell.
'Gone.'
'Or… was he?'
A spark flickered in my brain. My eyes slowly widened. A single thought—ridiculous and beautiful—lit up like a lantern.
"Wait a minute... That's right!" I slapped my forehead. "Why didn't I think of this sooner?"
I turned to the bars. Measured them with the intensity of someone trying to guess the diameter of doom. I bent down, narrowed my eyes, and traced the space between one bar and the next with my fingers.
"I could definitely squeeze through," I muttered, chewing my lower lip. "But what if the moment I try, the bars zap me? Or explode? Or scream? Or worse… alert Master Sylph with some magical 'Llyne-has-escaped' siren?"
I squinted at the bars suspiciously.
They squinted back.
…Okay, no they didn't. But it felt like they did.
I stared. Long and hard. For what felt like an eternity.
And then, with reckless determination, I threw my arms up and shouted, "WELL! Like they always say—if you don't try, you'll never know!"
I backed up. Took a deep breath. And slowly, cautiously, extended one trembling leg through the bars.
Nothing happened.
No jolt. No spark. No angry enchantment booming in my ears.
Still breathing, I slipped my other leg through. Then my hips. My torso. My arms. I tilted my head, sucked in my cheeks, and—pop!—squeezed the rest of myself out like a tube of rebellious toothpaste.
I tumbled forward and landed flat on the hallway floor.
Silence.
I blinked at the smooth stone beneath me.
"I… did it…"
I sat up slowly, still half in disbelief. Then I stood—no, I rose—and turned back to look at the cell that had held me prisoner for days. For weeks. For an eternity of potions and powdered herbs and emotionally manipulative broomsticks.
And then it hit me.
I had won.
"I DID IT!!!" I dropped to my knees, flung my hands toward the ceiling, and screamed to the heavens like a war hero returning from battle. My voice echoed down the corridor like a triumph anthem sung off-key.
Somewhere, I imagined Sir Gloop's ashes twinkling proudly in the air.
"Rest in peace, my friend," I whispered. "Your sacrifice shall not be in vain."
And with that, I grinned.
'Freedom… tasted like dust and rebellion.'
But unlike everyone else in this world, my luck has the lifespan of a soap bubble on a cactus.
One second of freedom—glorious, glittering freedom—then suddenly… I felt it.
The air dropped a degree. My spine stiffened. Somewhere, a rat squeaked its final breath. And behind me…
An evil presence.
An ancient, soul-squeezing aura of doom.
My entire body tensed like a badly tuned harp string. My eyes widened. My legs froze mid-celebration pose.
I slowly turned my head—no, not turned. Swiveled, like a cursed music box ballerina forced to look upon the horror that awakened from the shadows.
I felt the goosebumps rise across my arms in perfect rhythm, like a horror soundtrack building to a scream. My teeth chattered. My knees knocked. My soul prepared itself to evacuate through my ears.
"Oh no. Oh no. Oh no no no—" I muttered, arms flailing blindly behind me like they could somehow karate-chop the evil into submission.
Then I did what any mature, trained, potion-grinding apprentice would do in such a moment.
I dropped face-first onto the cold stone floor and whispered, "I was never here. I am but a rug. A humble, innocent rug. Please don't step on me."
Silence.
Then a shadow loomed over me.
I didn't even dare breathe. My entire existence collapsed into one desperate prayer to the gods of luck, fate, and whoever's in charge of horrible timing.
'Please… don't let it be her. Don't let it be—'
The familiar clack of geta sandals echoed like judgment itself.
"…Llyne," came a sweet, ominous voice. "What a surprise."
My heart shriveled.
I slowly turned my head, just enough to see the hem of a graceful robe. My lips trembled. "M-Ma-Ma-Ma…"
My mouth locked up like it had signed a non-disclosure agreement with my survival instinct. I couldn't even get the word Master out.
And then she smiled.
'Oh, stars. That smile.'
Gentle. Refined. Deadly.
The kind of smile an executioner might offer just before adjusting the blade for a cleaner cut.
"Did you enjoy your walk?" she asked, in the same tone one might use to ask a puppy if it wanted a treat.
I gulped audibly.
Death had never looked so polite.
If I were a poor little shrew and Master was the elegant predator lurking in the tall grass, I'd do what any sensible shrew would do—freeze, squeak once in despair, and then immediately play dead with the dramatic flair of a seasonal stage actor.
Maybe if I lay just right—limbs sprawled, tongue out, eyes slightly crossed—she'd look down and think, "Ah, how tragic. The poor creature expired from natural causes. No need to punish a corpse."
…Unlikely. But hey, a shrew's gotta try.
So I flopped, motionless on the floor like a tragic theatre victim of Life Itself.
And for a moment, silence.
Then—bad idea klaxon blaring—Master gracefully squatted down beside me.
I dared to crack one eye open, just a sliver.
Big mistake.
She was smiling.
Not the nice kind of smile. Not the "I brought you cookies" smile. No. It was the kind of smile that belonged to a cat with a paw already on the mouse's tail.
She poked my exposed tummy with one perfectly manicured finger, like a child testing the squish of a soon-to-be-devoured jelly snack.
I stiffened, every cell in my body screaming abort mission!
All the color drained from my face so fast, I might as well have been prepped for burial—complete with flowers, incense, and a mournful flute solo—which, frankly, would've been the kindest thing Master could've done for me at that point.
Because knowing Master, she'd never let a corpse go to waste.
Bones for potion bases. Organs sold to creepy merchants in velvet robes. Skin turned into fashionable parchment wallpaper.
Yup.
Inhumane.
One word to describe Master Sylph?
Cultivated.
Unfortunately…That's my Master.