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ELARA

Everything feels distant, like I’m watching from outside my own body, a spectator to my own life. Sound is muffled, like I’m underwater; voices blur together into a meaningless hum. Someone is speaking, maybe to me, but I can’t seem to focus. My brain refuses to process the words.

My limbs feel heavy, sluggish, like I’m moving through syrup. Or maybe I’m not moving at all. I can’t tell. My heart is hammering in my chest, too fast, too hard, like it’s trying to break free. Or maybe it’s slowed to a crawl. I can’t tell, either.

The world tilts, a sickening lurch in my stomach, but my body doesn’t react. My fingers tingle, a strange numbness creeping up my arms.

Breathe.

I should be breathing, but I’m not sure if I am. There’s a tightness in my throat, like something is lodged there, pressing down, choking me, but I know there’s nothing. Nothing at all.

Cold. I should be cold, I think. Or maybe I’m burning up. My skin prickles as the sensations blur together, indistinct, unreal. I stare, unblinking, at something. What? My mind refuses to grasp onto it. It’s too much, too big, too impossible.

Something inside me is screaming. Silent. A distant echo. It doesn’t reach the surface. It doesn’t reach me.

The massive Urr’ki guards surround me, locking my line of sight onto them. Even the glimpses I catch of the city past them don’t make sense. Piles of rubble. Broken buildings. Broken people.

They killed him.

The memory is a still image. Stuck, floating in front as I walk with the guards. They didn’t hesitate. He stepped up, said something, and he was dead. As fast as that. I didn’t shout. I barely had time to blink and he was gone.

I knew they were violent. We’d talked about how it could come to this. He told me, in whispers as if afraid to speak even inside his own home, the rumors. That the other females had disappeared. That the Shaman was calling for more vigilance. More violence. More blood to feed to their dark god, the Paluga. But there was nothing to do but wait and hope they didn’t come for me.

Until they did.

The guards dragging me along are cold. Empty. Emotionless. They look like they are resigned to their own demise as so many of the Urr’ki are. My stomach rebels, causing me to stumble and retch. One of them grabs my arm and pulls but I’m doubled over, gasping for air between dry heaves.

They killed him.

It’s not like I knew him well. He was my captor. Sort of, well, not really. We’d been living together for quite a while and he was nice enough. Distant and cold, but he didn’t hurt me. And when they came he tried to protect me.

The guard jerks again, forcing me into motion. I move, looking around but unable to see beyond him. Four, maybe six guards surround me, following behind two of the fear inspiring Maulavi. Those two are instantly recognizable by their ragged gray robes.

The street we travel is shattered. Large cracks split the once-smooth stones. Piles of rubble force us to weave instead of travel in a line. I look up at the cavern ceiling, too dark to see, but what I see instead makes my blood run cold.

The black tower. The tower that dominates the city center. Rising up and above, taller than anything else. A black finger pointing towards the surface like a blackened finger scratching at the tomb of this cavern. My stomach knots seeing it as I realize that’s our destination.

“No,” I whisper. “No.”

They killed him.

That black tower is where hope goes to die. Around its base is built the platform that holds the Shaman’s cursed, infernal machine. The thing he uses to sacrifice people. This is it. I’m going to be strapped to that blasted machine and not just die, but die in excruciating pain.

No. No. I’m not going to die like that.

Certainty floods through me in a warm rush that burns away the lethargy clinging to my muscles. I straighten as my thoughts clear. The steady march of the guards heavy boots set a rhythm. I count the steps and my heart seems to beat in time with them. We angle around a pile of stones blocking half the street. The guards spread apart to avoid having to climb over rubble.

I don’t think. I act.

When the space opens up between two of them I take the chance. I run.

“Stop!” “Grab her!” “No!”

The shouts rise from behind as I bound up and over the rubble. I reach the top of the pile and the stones slip. I try to stay upright but it’s impossible. I throw myself forward. A landslide takes me down the far side. All I can do is shout and scramble, trying to not be buried.

I hit the bottom of the pile and try to stand. My left ankle screams with pain. I fall back onto my ass and cry out.