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His lip curls. “Silence.” He strides forward, drawing a short, curved blade from the sheath at his hip. The second soldier remains at the doorway, blocking any escape route. I consider dashing toward the narrow window near my pallet, but it’s too high off the ground and boarded from the outside. Trapped.

The soldier grabs my arm. “You’ve been chosen,” he states with grim finality. “Try to resist, and I’ll gut you where you stand.”

I yank my arm back, trying to tear free of his grip. He’s stronger than me—his fingers dig in like iron claws. “Chosen for what?” My voice trembles, though I force a spark of challenge into it.

The soldier’s sneer deepens. “It’s not your place to ask.” His grip tightens, forcing me to my knees. My eyes prick with pain, but I clench my teeth and endure. If I show weakness, he’ll exploit it. A murmur of alarm spreads among the other slaves, but they keep their distance, terrified they’ll be implicated if they intervene.

Before I can struggle again, the guard snaps a length of rope from his belt. He binds my wrists behind my back, knotting the coarse fiber so tightly it cuts off circulation in my hands. Blood thrums in my ears, half fury, half fear. The second soldier approaches and wrenches me upright with a single yank. I bite back a cry.

I take in the pallid faces of my shackmates. Mirena, still feverish, stares at me with hopeless eyes. There’s nothing any of us can do. I don’t even bother resisting as they drag me outside. Struggling in earnest might earn me a swift blade to the ribs, and if that’s how I die, it won’t help anyone.

The early morning sky is ashen, clouds roiling overhead. The stench of fish and sewage mingles in the alley. My captors pull me along, boots crunching on broken cobblestones. A handful of dark elf onlookers sneer or ignore us. Human laborers avert their gaze entirely, desperate not to attract attention.

We pass deeper into the city, leaving Lowtown’s decaying shanties behind. The streets widen, flanked by tall buildings of black marble adorned with glowing arcane runes. I stumble over a jagged curb, nearly falling, but the soldier’s grip keeps me moving. Our pace is brutal, barely giving me time to suck in ragged breaths.

As we ascend toward the wealthier districts, the architecture grows grander. High archways lead into courtyards filled with twisting statues, each reminiscent of some dark elven deity. I glimpse the Tradesman’s temple, its facade depicting scenes of bartering souls. Farther up, I spot the spires of the Deceiver’s sanctuary, polished obsidian glinting even in the dull morning light.

I can feel curious stares from passing dark elves—some lavishly dressed in flowing silks, others in austere robes embroidered with shimmering thread. Whispers follow in ourwake: a human slave being escorted under armed guard. Perhaps they already suspect my fate.

I’m trembling by the time we approach the gates of a looming structure, a fortress-like estate ringed with ornate iron bars. The gate swings open at the guards’ approach, either commanded by hidden sentries or triggered by enchantments. My gut clenches when I see the demonic gargoyles perched atop the walls, their stone faces carved into eternal snarls.

The courtyard beyond is spacious, paved with pale tiles inlaid with swirling silver designs. We march across it, the soldiers’ armor reflecting the faint sunlight. Tapestries hang from the estate’s walls, each one depicting warlike scenes of dark elves commanding monstrous creatures. This place radiates wealth and cruelty in equal measure.

The front doors stand open, revealing an opulent foyer. More guards cluster inside, a few bowing their heads in acknowledgment as we pass. The tile floor is polished to a mirror finish, and arcane lanterns suspended from the high ceiling cast shifting shadows across the walls. Columns of black stone flank a crimson carpet, leading to another set of doors. My heartbeat thunders, dread creeping through my veins. Where are they taking me?

We descend a spiral staircase that delves into the bowels of this fortress. The air grows cold and stale, and the sound of dripping water echoes off stone walls. My breath turns shallow. I sense wards laced through the corridors—whispers of magic that raise the hairs on my arms. Each time we pass a threshold, I feel them hum against my skin.

At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway opens into a dim passage. Torch brackets shaped like twisted serpents flicker with greenish flame. After several paces, we reach a set of doors forged from dark iron. The soldiers pause as one raps agauntleted fist against the metal. The sound reverberates like a death knell.

A latch grinds from the other side. One door swings inward on oiled hinges, revealing a chamber shrouded in shadow. My captors thrust me forward. I stumble into the gloom, eyes straining to adjust. The stench of incense and blood assaults my senses, making me gag.

Inside, robed figures circle a raised dais. Their hoods obscure most of their faces, but I see the gleam of blackened lips and elongated ears beneath. Dark elf priests, perhaps. At the middle of the dais stands an intricate symbol carved into the floor—a swirling pattern reminiscent of a serpent devouring its own tail. The lines glow faintly with sickly green light.

One of the robed figures steps closer, pushing back his hood to reveal angular features and violet eyes. His hair is braided into elaborate knots, each bound with silver clasps. He surveys me with dispassionate interest, lips curving in a predatory smile. “Welcome,” he says softly. “We’ve been expecting you.”

The soldiers release my arms. My wrists remain bound behind me, leaving me off-balance. I force myself to stand tall despite the trembling in my knees. “What is this?” I demand, voice scratchy.

He circles me, the soft whisper of his robes amplifying the tense silence. “A ceremony to honor our pact with powers beyond comprehension,” he replies. “Our city thrives thanks to the demon bound to our king’s will. And you, my dear, have the dubious honor of serving as an offering to reinforce that bond.”

A chill floods my bones.A demon.Images of monstrous beasts flit through my mind—horned horrors rumored to devour humans for sport. The stories told in Lowtown say they can burn you from the inside out, or snap your spine with one hand.

I grit my teeth. “I’m not going to kneel before any monster,” I growl. My voice shakes, but I need them to know I’m not meek prey.

A ripple of amusement passes through the circle of priests. “Whether you kneel or not, the outcome remains the same,” the robed leader murmurs. Then he tilts his head to an attendant, who quickly steps forward with a leather pouch. The priest accepts it, pulling out a piece of chalk glimmering with runic inscriptions. He begins tracing symbols in a widening spiral around me, each stroke humming with arcane energy.

Fear sets my heart hammering. My stomach clenches as the lines on the floor glow brighter, pulsing in time with my breath. The other robed figures start chanting in the dark elf tongue, their voices rising and falling in a disconcerting melody. My pulse races faster with every syllable.

The ring of chanting priests steps back, leaving me alone in the circle of luminescent runes. I tug at my bindings, desperate to find a loose knot, but the rope remains unyielding. My mouth goes dry. I glance at the soldiers who brought me here, but they’re pressed against the far wall, watching with blank faces. They’re likely under orders not to interfere.

Swallowing hard, I take stock of the chamber. Above us, a domed ceiling arches overhead, etched with more runes and swirling patterns. Crimson tapestries hang from the walls, each embroidered with depictions of dark elves bowing before a colossal demonic shape. Torches gutter along the perimeter, casting twisting shadows that seem to slither across the floor.

The chanting crescendos. My breath hitches when the lines under my feet flare with green fire. Sparks arc across the circle. The temperature plummets, leaving goosebumps across my arms. An almost tangible force thickens the air, pressing against my skin like invisible hands.

A shudder rips through the chamber. The robed elf leading the ritual lifts his voice above the chant, shouting words that sound older than language itself. The floor cracks in a radial pattern around me, releasing swirling tendrils of black vapor.

I brace, every instinct screaming at me to flee, but I’m trapped. The vapor congeals into a vortex of seething darkness, swirling at the heart of the runic seal. The chanting dies, replaced by a low, thrumming resonance that thrums in my bones.

From that churning mass of shadow steps a figure. My mind reels, trying to process what I’m seeing. He stands at least eight feet tall, a looming presence with broad shoulders and ebony skin traced by glowing crimson veins. Horns curl from his temples, one broken near the tip. Claws, sharp as obsidian blades, flex at his sides. The air around him crackles with energy that makes my hair stand on end.