Chapter 277: You Should Have Kept Your Hands to Yourself

“Now, how do I get around this whole situation?”

Max murmured to himself as moonlight slipped between the bars, illuminating his tired face. He watched the path where Antiope and her companion had disappeared, waiting until their footsteps faded before shifting closer to the door.

“If I start shouting that the bear sister is plotting murder, they’ll just laugh at me. I doubt Myrina would believe me either.” His fingers traced the wood beside the fastening he could not reach. “She’d probably throw me back in here before I finished explaining.”

Myrina had defended him, but that did not mean she trusted him. Asking her to believe that her sister intended to kill her would take more than the word of a stranger. He had nothing to show her and no name for the other woman involved, only a conversation he should never have heard.

“Not my problem anyway. I just need to get this damn thing open.”

He pressed his palm against the door, gradually putting his weight behind it. The wood creaked without bending, and he stopped before the sound carried toward the houses.

“For something that looks so fragile, it’s harder than steel. Perhaps even tougher than my crystals…”

His fingers found the spot Antiope had cracked beneath her grip. Remembering how casually she had damaged something he could barely scratch made him glance toward the path again.

“I wonder…”

He studied the dark grain. He could perhaps use this wood to reinforce his crystal structures, building a frame within the walls and growing crystal around it. He imagined thick beams supporting towers, gates strengthened with both materials, and a fortress durable enough to withstand a falling meteor.

For a moment, he worked through the possibilities as though he were back in Blackspire, choosing what to build next. Then the pressure of a bar against his shoulder brought his attention back to the cage.

Max followed the crack downward until his nail reached the joint holding the fastening. The split disappeared into a narrow gap, leaving him wondering whether the damage extended farther inside.

He leaned closer to examine it.

“You should have kept your hands to yourself.”

A splinter from the cage floor fitted into the opening. He worked its pointed end deeper, twisting carefully until it lodged firmly in place. When he eased it out again, a thin shaving came with it.

Max studied the shaving before reaching for another piece.

By dawn, he had scraped enough wood from the joint to feel a shallow groove beneath his fingertip. He covered it when a woman approached with food, keeping his expression bored while she inspected the cage.

The following days settled into a routine. He watched the village when anyone was nearby and worked at the damaged joint whenever attention shifted elsewhere. The clashing weapons in the training grounds covered small noises, allowing him to press harder without every creak making him stop.

He kept useful fragments beneath him and rubbed loose dust from the frame before meals arrived. Whenever the cage was lowered, he rested his hand over the damage, waiting until it was raised again before letting himself breathe freely.

At night, he worked by touch. His fingertips became tender, and a split beneath one nail stung whenever he pushed a wedge into place, but he continued until fatigue made his hands careless.

The slow progress gave his days purpose, though it did little to ease the thought of home. He counted each sunset against the time his people had already spent without him, then returned to the joint before that helplessness settled again.

Another week passed, followed by most of a second. His magic remained silent, but the damaged section gradually loosened. He could now feel it shift when he pressed with his thumb.

Myrina still crossed the village below. Once, she looked up and caught him watching, but Max merely leaned against the bars until she continued walking. Whatever happened between the sisters, he intended to be gone before it reached his cage.

He also studied the ropes whenever the women lowered him. He watched which lengths moved, where they passed above the cage, and what he might reach once outside. Without his wings, the distance to the ground demanded more care than he had wanted to give it.

Near the end of the second week, the fastening shifted with the weakened wood.

Max waited until the village grew quiet before bracing his feet against the opposite bars. He pushed gradually, feeling the strain spread through his shoulders while the joint resisted.

A sharp crack broke the silence.

He stopped breathing. Footsteps approached beneath him, and Max lowered his head, keeping his hands against the door as though he had fallen asleep there.

The woman paused.

He could see a faint glow through his lowered lashes, close enough that he dared not adjust his grip. Sweat slipped down his temple while the loose wood pressed against his palm. If it fell, there would be no hiding what he had done.

The footsteps finally continued toward the houses.

Max waited until the light disappeared before carefully drawing the broken piece inward. It came free with a quiet scrape, leaving an opening beside the crooked fastening.

His fingers slipped through.

He could touch it now, though the angle forced him to bend his wrist painfully against the frame. Twice it caught before moving, and each time he stopped to listen, swallowing the curses gathering behind his teeth.

On the third attempt, it released.

Max held still, his fingers curled around it. Then he pressed his other hand against the door and felt it move.

He eased it outward, keeping a firm grip so it would not swing and strike the cage. Moonlight spread across the threshold as he leaned forward, looking past his bare feet toward the ground far below.

There was nothing beneath the doorway to stand on.

Max looked toward the ropes above, tightened his grip on the frame, and pushed the door fully open.