Genius In A Woman World

The plan wasn't perfect.

Niklas knew that.

But perfection was the luxury of kings, not prisoners. What he had was timing, patterns, and leverage—and for a seventeen-year-old genius in a world that saw him as livestock, that was more than enough.

Day eleven.

The pulley broke again. This time with a snap that echoed down the corridor like a pistol shot. The rope whipped wildly, a bucket thudding against the stone as guards shouted and swore.

Niklas sat cross-legged on his cot, watching the chaos.

One of the guards ran toward the pulley room. "Fuck, again? Go fetch Farra. I'm not climbing that shaft."

Perfect.

He stood, cracked his neck, and moved to the hook he'd been working for days. His makeshift rope—a combination of twined fabric from his tunic, cot threads, and food tray rags—was coiled tight around it.

He looped it around his wrist, tied the other end to the cot's leg, and pressed his ear to the door.

Footsteps—two guards gone. One left at the end of the hall.

He exhaled slowly and yanked hard on the line.

Crack.

The hook tore out of the stone with a small pop and clanged to the floor.

He kicked it under the cot and waited.

Ten seconds later, the door opened with a creak.

"What was that noise?" came the gruff voice of the blue-haired guard.

Niklas stood in the center of the cell, hands at his sides. "Something snapped."

She narrowed her eyes. "You break something, slave?"

"I barely touched the wall. Maybe it's old. Loose. I don't want to be crushed in here."

Her face twisted in suspicion. "Move aside."

He did.

She stepped in. Looked around. Spotted the small crack above the wall where the hook had once been.

She muttered, "Fucking masons…" and turned—

Niklas moved like lightning.

He slammed the edge of his tray into her wrist, knocking the baton free, and threw his weight into her side. She stumbled, hit the cot, and gasped as he drove his elbow into her throat.

She gurgled once.

Niklas caught her before she hit the floor and dragged her inside, grabbing her baton and belt pouch. He shoved the blanket into her mouth and rolled her under the cot, locking the door from the inside.

No time for guilt.

No time to hesitate.

He opened the belt pouch.

Keys.

Two, maybe three usable ones. One for his manacles.

Click.

They dropped with a satisfying clank.

He rubbed his wrists briefly—bruised, but usable—and slipped out into the hall. The pulley room was two doors down. No guards in sight.

He sprinted low, body tense, muscles burning.

The pulley chamber was chaos—ropes twisted, buckets overturned. A crate of firewood had collapsed during the commotion. One of the servants was crying over a broken finger.

Niklas spotted the shaft.

A wooden maintenance duct running vertically with an iron pulley and counterweight system. Not designed for people—but wide enough for a thin man to crawl if he could anchor himself.

He tied the pulley rope to his torso. Too weak to climb straight. Instead, he used the counterweight. He rigged the tension by looping it through the winch's guide, anchoring it with the servant's spilled firewood and a snapped axle.

The balance shifted.

His body lifted—slow, grinding inches—but enough.

He grabbed the shaft's beams, climbing sideways when the rope couldn't do the rest. Every pull triggered burning muscle memory. His arms were working harder than they had in his life. But they responded.

Strong.

Resilient.

This body wants to fight, he realized. It was trained for this.

He reached the first hatch—a maintenance grate. Locked. He took the guard's brass baton and jammed the latch until it gave.

He was inside.

A storage room. Empty but for crates of rusted tools and wheels.

Now or never.

He grabbed a cloak, discarded gloves, and a travel hood from one of the hooks on the wall. He slipped them on, tucking the baton into a side slit. His feet were still bare, but the halls ahead were stone—he'd move quieter without boots.

Out the far door. Down a narrow hall.

Voices. Women shouting. Someone discovered the downed guard.

They'll seal the exits.

He picked up speed.

A left turn. A door marked with a foreign crest. He pushed it open.

A kitchen.

Empty.

He darted through, ducking behind shelves and hanging fowl. He snatched a curved knife off a prep table and slipped it under the cloak.

A guard passed outside the window, shouting for someone named Commander Myris.

Niklas didn't stop.

He found a side exit behind a pantry, slipped through a gap between crates, and emerged into a courtyard.

A bell was ringing now.

"Prisoner loose!"

"Seal the south wing!"

He ran.

Past a row of stables. Past an old well. Toward the wall that bordered the eastern gate.

He dove behind a cart just as three guards sprinted by.

Breath ragged. Vision swimming. But he was out.

He watched the pattern.

Two guards on the gate. One rotated to patrol the outer wall every fifteen minutes.

He waited. Timed the interval.

Then ran.

He used the well as cover, slashed the rope with the kitchen blade, and tied it to the cart's axle. He looped it over a tree branch and used the tension to sling himself over the edge of the low roof.

He grabbed the wall's edge, hauled himself over, rolled onto the battlement—and dropped.

Straight into the river that ran below the eastern perimeter.

The impact knocked the wind out of him.

Cold.

But alive.

He surfaced, coughing, and kicked toward the reeds. Every stroke cut his skin on underwater stones, but he didn't stop until he reached the shore.

Niklas collapsed in the mud, panting. Half-naked. Freezing. Alive.

He turned and stared at the fortress behind him.

A speck of torchlight flickered above. Someone spotted the rope. Shouting resumed.

Too late.

Niklas grinned through his pain.

"You gave me walls," he whispered, "but you forgot I knew how to break them."