Anzia: a rising storm.

The Caged Man and the Rising Storm

The night air was thick with whispers. Ainza sat beneath the sycamore tree, her hands tracing the worn handle of her hook, as Mary-Beth and Clara spoke of what they had done. Another man had fallen that night—Tobias Crane, found in the cotton fields, groaning, ruined, and less of a man than he had been that morning.

But they were not alone.

A branch snapped. The women turned, eyes flashing in the moonlight. There, half-hidden behind the brush, stood Eric.

Eric, the kind one. The only white man in the village who had ever shown them kindness. He brought extra food when no one was looking, whispered warnings when the masters were in foul moods. He had never raised a whip, never taken what wasn’t offered. He was no overseer. But he was still a man. And now, he had heard everything.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Eric turned to run.

Ainza was faster.

She sprang forward, catching his arm, dragging him back with strength he hadn’t known she possessed. He stumbled, and before he could cry out, Mary-Beth drove her knee between his legs. A gasp tore from his throat as pain folded him in half.

“Shhh,” Ainza cooed, pressing her fingers against his lips. “Wouldn’t want to wake the village.”

Eric trembled beneath her grip, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But Ainza saw the truth in his eyes—he wasn’t afraid for himself. He was afraid for them.

“You don’t understand,” he rasped. “If the masters find out—”

Josephine grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. “And will they?”

Eric swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I won’t tell.”

But that wasn’t enough.

Men promised many things when they were afraid. Ainza had seen slaves beg for mercy, promising never to run, only to flee the first chance they got. She had seen overseers swear a beating was the last, only to raise the whip the next day.

She would not risk it.

“Bind him,” she ordered.

The women hesitated. “Ainza,” Mary-Beth murmured, “he ain’t like them.”

“No,” Ainza agreed. “But he’s still in the way.”

With a scrap of rope and trembling hands, they bound Eric’s wrists, dragging him back to the old barn where Silas had once screamed. They tied him tight, but not cruelly. He would not be broken like the others. His body would remain whole—his manhood, mostly intact. But he would not leave.

Not until the revolution was ready.

Because now, there was no more time for whispers. No more waiting in the dark.

The masters would notice their missing men. The overseers would grow cautious.

They had started something that could not be stopped.

Ainza ran a hand through Eric’s sweat-damp hair, tilting his face up to hers. “You’ll stay here,” she said softly. “And when it begins, you’ll see.”

Eric met her gaze, chest rising and falling. He was afraid. But more than that—he understood.

And outside, beyond the barn, the night grew restless with the promise of war.