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ELYRIA

The shriek of metal on metal tears through the still morning air, and I pause mid-swing, my hands shaking around the iron bucket I’m carrying. My heart jolts so violently it feels as if it might rip straight out of my ribs. The noise reverberates across the stone courtyard where I and the other slaves—toil under the unrelenting eyes of the dark elves. Towering, jagged spires rise around me—part fortress, part labyrinth—so tall they seem to slice through the sky itself. I swallow my fear and set the bucket down, trying to steady my trembling limbs. I haven’t slept in what feels like days.

My life here is a ceaseless loop of harsh commands and physical exhaustion, but today feels worse. A heaviness presses down on me from the moment I open my eyes. There’s a sense of impending change—or doom—clinging to the stale air. The courtyard itself feels on edge, as though the stones are bracing for something terrible.

I roll my aching shoulders, careful not to jostle the iron collar at my throat. A chain runs from that collar to the belt of my dark elf overseer, who’s currently speaking to another guard near the courtyard’s edge. Being ignored for a moment gives me thesmallest illusion of privacy—enough to let my fear flicker across my face before I mask it again.

The collar weighs heavily, as it always does. It marks me as property, as something less than the dust under the elves’ boots. I wear it because I’m “human,” too insignificant to be given an actual name unless I’m being ordered around or punished. Whenever I recall how easily they can yank that chain and choke off my air, my throat tightens with memory. I press a hand against the cold metal and exhale slowly, forcing the panic back down.

“Elyria,” a voice hisses from my right. “Hurry up.”

I jump at the sound of my own name. It’s Thyra, another slave—a frail woman with a perpetual twitch in her left eye. She’s stooped under the weight of a large sack, her face pale and streaked with dirt. “They won’t wait for us,” she mutters.

I pick up my bucket again. It’s filled with slop for the fortress’s monstrous guard-hounds, and some of it sloshes over my hand, soaking my threadbare sleeve. The stench that rises is so foul it makes me gag. “I’m moving,” I whisper back, my voice raw from disuse.

We walk across the courtyard in tandem, the fortress’s looming walls casting long shadows over us. Tall, dark elf carvings—twisted and menacing—frame the path. Unlit torches line the walkway like silent sentinels. Nobody is laughing or chatting. Even the guards remain quiet, each one tense, as though the whole fortress is holding its breath.

Last night, while lying on the cold stone floor where I sleep, I overheard the guards whispering. They spoke about the gargoyles—beings rumored to be half-stone, half-devil, who once waged a brutal war. They said the gargoyles aren’t just legends anymore. They’ve awakened from a century-long slumber. I can still hear every word that slipped under the heavy door in the hush of darkness:

They’re raiding towns. They’re culling the women—every human female is to be killed on sight. The Alpha’s decree…

I shudder at the memory. The chill of the night is nothing compared to the dread that scalds my veins. Gargoyles. I remember stories of them from my childhood—beasts with monstrous wings and eyes like molten fire, possessing a savage thirst for violence that rivals even the dark elves. But why target human women specifically? I can’t shake the fear that it has something to do with old legends about witches… about purna.

Though I’ve never shown a single spark of magic in my twenty-two years, I can’t escape the rumors that cling to me like a curse. The silver streak in my near-black hair and the birthmark behind my ear have always drawn suspicion from my overseers. “Abnormal,” they call me. Once, a dark elf pressed a blade to that spot, threatening to carve it away if I didn’t confess to witchery. I insisted I’m just a normal human—just a slave—but that didn’t stop them from branding my back or scarring the skin around my collar.

I have no magic,I remind myself.No power.

“Move faster,” a new voice snaps, sharper and harsher than Thyra’s. It belongs to Zhorath, an overseer who radiates a twisted sort of glee whenever he’s tormenting us. His pointed ears quiver as though he delights in sneering at humans. The slender chain connecting my collar to his belt jingles against his leg guards. “Hound feed is late. The beasts grow restless.”

He’s tall, even for a dark elf, with silvery-white hair bound in an elaborate twist. His tunic is the color of dried blood, held together by a black metal pauldron shaped like a fanged demon. I’ve never seen him without that sinister pauldron, almost as if it’s fused to his flesh. Dark elves allegedly dabble in all kinds of vile, twisted magic; I don’t want to know the truth of it.

I mumble an apology I don’t feel. “Yes, Overseer.”

His eyes narrow. “Is your voice failing, slave? Do you need a reminder of your place?”

My pulse stutters. “No. No, Overseer. I’ll hurry.”

“See that you do.” He flicks the chain once, a vicious little tug that nearly makes me spill the slop again.

Gritting my teeth, I pick up the pace with Thyra at my side. We turn into a narrower corridor lit by flickering lanterns. The smell of rot and wet fur intensifies, my stomach twisting with disgust. The kennel lies just ahead, behind a series of iron bars. Corridors branch off in multiple directions, each lined with black stone carved in swirling runes.

Zhorath watches us as we pour the foul stew into troughs for the snapping, snarling guard-hounds. Some of these beasts have glowing red eyes—another sign of dark magic. They gnash their teeth, lunging as though ravenous. The wet slurping and gnawing sets my nerves on fire, but at least the racket distracts me from the overseer’s gaze.

Beneath that guttural noise, I hear another sound: hushed voices echoing from deeper within the fortress. Rumors spread quickly among slaves. If I focus, I can catch fragments—terror about the gargoyles, horror over the new kill decree. The fortress has doubled its security lately, adding more archers on the walls, dishing out more beatings in the yard. No one wants the dark elves thinking we hide purna blood among us.

They’re going to kill us all if they decide we’re a threat,I think bitterly.The gargoyles might get to us first.A heavy knot of fear tightens in my gut. I try to tell myself I’m safer inside these walls than I’d be out there, but the truth is that I’m trapped either way.

Zhorath flicks the chain again. “Stay here, slave, until the hounds finish eating. See that they get every crumb. When you’re done, return to the courtyard and scrub the walkway. Understood?”

“Yes, Overseer,” I say as steadily as I can manage.

He lets his gaze linger on the brand across my throat where the collar digs into my flesh, then smirks. “I’ll be back. Don’t even think about running.”

I swallow.Where would I go?

With a contemptuous snort, he leaves. His footsteps echo until the only sounds remaining are the hounds’ wet snarls and Thyra’s ragged breathing.