The first thing she learned was that the dead were quieter than the living.
Not because they made no sound, but because no one listened for them.
She waited until the pile stopped shifting. Until the last cart rolled away and the guards' voices drifted toward the holding pens, where numbers were counted and miscounted. When the torches flared in the distance, their light did not reach her.
Only then did she move.
Slowly.
She slid her freed arm out from beneath the weight pinning it, easing it upward until the skin burned from pressure returning. She paused when a body above her shifted slightly, then continued once it settled again.
Her breathing stayed shallow.
The smell clung to her hair, her clothes, her skin. It filled her mouth, her nose, her thoughts. She welcomed it. The guards avoided this place because of it.
She shifted her legs next, bending carefully at the knees, drawing them in just enough to create space. Her ankle still bore the iron shackle, the chain attached to nothing now but her own movement.
It dragged softly when she moved.
She froze.
Nothing happened.
She waited longer than necessary, letting her heartbeat slow again before continuing.
The final body resting across her chest was lighter than the others, small enough that she could roll it aside without disturbing the pile too much. She angled it carefully, using the slope of the bodies to guide its weight.
When it slipped free, she felt the air rush back into her lungs.
She lay still for a long moment after that, staring at the dark.
Then she sat up.
The world felt wrong immediately.
Too open. Too wide. The absence of weight was unsettling, like stepping off a ledge without falling. She resisted the urge to stand quickly, knowing sudden movement would draw the eye even if no one was watching.
She slid down the far side of the pile instead, keeping low, using the bodies to block sightlines.
The field stretched out around her, broken by carts, stakes, and uneven ground. Torches marked the holding area in the distance, their light flickering against the night. Guards moved there in familiar patterns.
Here, there was nothing.
She crawled.
Her palms sank into damp soil, fingers brushing fragments of bone and splintered wood. The chain at her ankle snagged briefly on something unseen, and her breath caught. She eased it free inch by inch.
When she reached the edge of the pile, she paused again.
Beyond it lay open ground leading toward a shallow depression where water had collected earlier in the day. Beyond that, darkness.
She listened.
The night was not silent. It never was. There were distant voices, the creak of carts settling, the low murmur of people confined and afraid.
But near her, there was nothing.
She moved.
She stayed low, keeping her profile small, letting the slope of the ground hide her from the pen. Each movement was deliberate, measured against the weight of the chain at her ankle.
Halfway to the depression, she heard a sound that made her stop.
Footsteps.
Not hurried.
Casual.
A guard crossed the field some distance away, lantern swinging loosely at his side. He did not look toward the pile. His path took him between carts, moving from one torch-lit area to another.
She did not move until he was gone.
When she reached the depression, she slid into it, water soaking into her clothes immediately. Cold seeped through fabric, biting at skin already stiff with grime.
She did not care.
The water masked scent. The mud dulled sound.
She crawled along the depression until it deepened, then lay flat, pressing herself into the earth.
Only then did she allow herself to think forward.
She was no longer counted.
That meant no one would come looking for her.
It also meant no one would stop her from being killed on sight.
Freedom did not come with protection.
She tested the shackle at her ankle, fingers finding the lock. It was old, worn, but intact. Breaking it here would take time and noise.
Not now.
She would move with it.
She rose into a crouch and began to move away from the field, keeping to the lowest ground, using every shadow available. Her pace was slow, uneven, the chain limiting her stride.
The farther she moved from the holding area, the quieter it became. The smell of death faded slightly, replaced by damp earth and smoke.
Then something changed.
A voice called out behind her.
Not shouting.
Questioning.
She dropped instantly, flattening herself against the ground as a lantern swung closer.
"Thought I saw movement," a guard said.
Another voice answered, closer this time. "Probably rats."
The lantern light swept across the ground, passing close enough that she could see the guard's boots, mud-caked and worn.
She held her breath.
The light moved on.
She waited until it was gone before crawling again.
Her muscles ached now, tension building with each careful movement. The cut at her wrist throbbed dully. Her ankle burned where iron rubbed raw skin.
She welcomed the pain.
It anchored her.
When she finally reached the edge of the field, the ground changed again—less compacted, grass struggling through in thin patches. She did not stop.
She crossed into it and kept going until the lights behind her dimmed.
Only then did she slow.
She sank down behind a low rise and pressed her back against it, chest heaving despite her efforts to control it.
She was shaking.
Not from fear alone.
From exposure.
From the sudden absence of structure.
Inside the pen, everything had been decided for her. Movement. Rest. Food. Pain.
Out here, there were no instructions.
She listened to the night, trying to identify threats. Insects. Wind. Distant movement.
Nothing close.
She did not sleep.
She stayed where she was until the sky lightened slightly, until the horizon shifted from black to gray.
When she finally stood, she did so carefully, testing her balance with the weight at her ankle.
She took one step.
Then another.
Each one carried her farther from the system that had defined her.
Each one made her more visible.
Free was not safe.
It was only unknown.
She began to walk.