Word Count: 470

They stuck their hands into her chest one by one.

From Lieutenant to Captain, and from Captain to General, they took their turns at a slow, even pace. Step up, reach in, fail. Their fingers grasped for her starseed but never made contact, forced from her body by an explosive power that sent them careening across the room. It left Ganymede winded, gasping for air and fighting the pull of unconsciousness.

She laughed at them, a deranged giggling that choked off with each intake of air. Her laughs grew as loud as her screams, mocking her captors as it echoed beneath the high, vaulted ceiling. She laughed so hard tears flowed from her eyes. She could not determine whether they were of sadness or mirth; her emotions were a jumbled mess, all tied up in the knots that twisted her gut. She was becoming unhinged, brought to the brink by pain and rage.

But she never went over the edge. In the absence of hope, Ganymede grasped onto her desires. With each hand that descended into her chest, she repeated her ambitions like a protective mantra.

Save Wolframite. Free Cyllene. Release Valhalla and hunt down all who would bring him harm.

It kept her going in those moments when giving up would have come as a relief; it pushed her forward in those hours when a normal life seemed so far beyond her grasp. She held onto her rage, let it fill her soul and strengthen her resolve, until she craved vengeance more than she craved her release from this prison.

They thought they could claim themselves to be victorious.

They couldn't.

They thought they knew the extent of the power of Order.

They didn't.

They thought they were breaking her.

They weren't.

They were putting her together from the bits and pieces of herself she'd acquired over the years, all the parts of her that before seemed disjointed, molding her from anger and pain. They fed her determination with each offering of bread and water, layered her with tenacity and fortitude with each fist that struck her. They could beat her down, abuse her, test her physical and emotional limits, but she would rise back up stronger than before.

She was not weak, and she was not lost. She was cautious but unafraid. She could bear the pain; she could harness it into something powerful, a protective force which cradled the very essence of her soul.

Once, not too long ago, she'd found herself in the ruins of the palace on Ganymede, and the skies turned blue when she found her place among the stars.

She found herself again in that cage, as the last pieces of an unbroken strength and an unyielding will fell into place.

They might end her life, but they would not destroy her soul.