A new current pulled at the souls imprisoned beneath the arena. Cold Hands could sense the change. The guards talked less. They moved more. And when they spoke it was in hurried whispers amongst themselves or loud shouts accompanied by the piercing crack of whips. The cold stone of her cell pleased her. The darkness that surrounded her sharpened her senses. And hunger filled her stomach with gentle expectation.

Panicked prayer. Screams of rage. Futile struggling. Cold Hands listened. She allowed the feelings to flow through her. She did not retreat. She did not withdraw. She chooses acceptance. She welcomes the rolling waves of suffering that come crashing over her.

Her breathe was slow, a rhythmic inhale and then exhale. Sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, Cold Hands contemplated the parable of the Bitter Wind. She thought of the Unsmiling One and her lips moved in silent recollection.

[i]My feet stand upon the frozen waters.

The cold wind cuts across my heart.

And I strike with fists shaped by despair.[/i]

The slavers presumed she merely waited. They could not see her preparation. They thought the metal bars would keep her. They hoped the heavy chains would bind her. They had already forgotten what she had told them.

Suffering had already set her free.