Page 7

We reach a long, arched hallway lined with tall windows.

The sky outside is a dusky twilight. I see glimpses of Pyrthos City below—rows of stone buildings, narrow streets lit by enchanted lanterns.

Further out, farmland stretches, though darkness swallows most details.

A pang hits me at the memory of my rebel allies out there somewhere, scattered or dead.

One guard unlocks a heavy wooden door that creaks open to reveal a modest suite.

A single window high on the wall, a narrow bed, a small table with a basin.

Hardly luxurious, but it’s not a dungeon cell either.

They shove me inside, and I catch myself against the table to avoid landing face-first on the floor.

The door slams shut behind me. I test the handle—locked, of course.

My wrists are still cuffed, the chain’s weight adding to my frustration.

I slump onto the edge of the bed, trying to ease the throbbing in my limbs.

My side pulses like a raw wound. Blood seeps through the bandage I hastily tied there sometime after the battle.

I grimace, pressing a hand against it to stem the oozing.

A swirl of questions besieges me. Where is Xelith now? Does he know they’ve dragged me before those officials, forced me to hear the council’s terms? Likely he orchestrated it—part of his grand plan to maintain ownership of me in the eyes of the lesser court. My lips curl in disgust.

Time drags. The window’s faint glow fades from gray to black.

My stomach twists with hunger, and my head pounds from dehydration.

Eventually, I lie down on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling.

The fortress hums with distant activity—footsteps in halls, low voices, doors slamming.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a trophy behind glass, waiting for my captor to check on me.

Freedom vs. Power. The phrase echoes in my mind again, and I recall how fervently I’ve always believed that humans deserve to live without chains.

That’s the freedom I’ve fought for, risked my life for.

Now, ironically, I’m harnessing the power of an exiled prince—an enemy—to stay alive.

It stings my conscience like a fresh wound.

A metallic scrape startles me. The door swings open, and in steps a figure holding a small lantern.

My body tenses, bracing for more scorn. But it’s not one of the haughty officials from earlier.

It’s a middle-aged human in a threadbare tunic and breeches, shoulders bowed under an invisible weight.

His features are lined with exhaustion, gray hair thinning at the temples. A servant, probably.

“Um… good evening, mistress,” he says quietly, eyes downcast.

I fight a wave of embarrassment that he’s calling me mistress when I’m shackled. “Who are you?”

He steps further in, setting the lantern on the table. “My name’s Halren. I—I work here in the fortress, under the directive of House Vaeranthe. The prince asked me to tend to your injuries.”

I sit up, wincing at a stab of pain in my side. “He did, did he?” My voice drips with skepticism. Xelith is pulling strings behind the scenes. Another reminder that he has enough clout to assign me a caretaker.

Halren clears his throat, rummaging in a small satchel. “I’m no physician, but I’ve learned some basic healing. Let me see what I can do for you, or he’ll have my hide.”

“You don’t have to worry about me attacking you.” I hold out my wrists. “The chains aren’t exactly conducive to strangling.”

He offers a shaky laugh that holds no real mirth. Then he takes a step closer, glancing at the bloodstain on my side. “You’re wounded there?”

I nod, swallowing a lump of pride. “Crossbow graze. I tried to wrap it, but it keeps tearing open.” It’s humiliating to be this vulnerable, but at least I’m being looked after by a fellow human—someone who might empathize, however silently.

Halren sets down the satchel, pulling out bandages, a small jar of salve, and a flask of what smells like diluted alcohol. “I’ll clean it first. Best brace yourself—it might sting.”

I clench the bed frame with my bound hands and let him lift the ragged edge of my tunic. The moment the alcohol touches my torn flesh, pain lances through me. I hiss, muscles rigid. Tears blur my vision for a second, but I blink them away. Halren mutters an apology under his breath.

“It’s all right,” I grind out. “Do what you must.”

He works quickly, applying a layer of salve that smells of bitter herbs, then wrapping fresh bandages around my abdomen. His hands are careful, deft, as though he’s done this many times for others. I don’t doubt it. The fortress must house plenty of battered slaves.

“Thank you,” I manage once the bandage is secure. It’s the first kindness I’ve received in a while—even if it’s forced by Xelith’s command.

Halren sets aside the supplies. He produces a small bowl of stew, covered by a cloth. “He… also said to bring you this. I didn’t know if you’d be awake. It’s not fancy, but it’s hot.”

My stomach gurgles at the scent. I recall the watery soup from before, my only sustenance since the battle. Hunger gnaws at me. “Thank you,” I repeat, more softly this time.

He lowers his gaze, stepping back. “I’m to check on you again tomorrow. If you need anything else… well, I’m not sure how much I can provide, but I’ll try.”

Before I can respond, he bows—an unnecessary gesture that makes my chest ache—and leaves, lantern in hand. The door locks once more, plunging me into semidarkness. One torch on the wall offers minimal light. I exhale, running a shaky hand through my tangled hair.

Reaching for the stew, I realize I still have to maneuver awkwardly because of the chain. It clinks as I lift the bowl to my mouth, sipping the lukewarm liquid. The taste is bland, but I devour it anyway, each mouthful staving off a little of the emptiness in my belly.

Afterward, I lie back again, trying to process the whirlwind of this night.

I was hauled in front of lesser officials who seemed gleeful at my predicament.

Then they dropped the bombshell: I’m spared from execution because Prince Xelith claimed me.

It’s a humiliating predicament, but it also means I’m alive—a small mercy when so many others have perished.

Freedom vs. Power. The theme resonates louder now. I wanted the power to free my people, but power in Protheka isn’t something humans possess in abundance. Dark Elves guard it fiercely. Now one of their own—a disgraced prince—holds the key to my immediate survival.

A strangled laugh escapes me. If anyone had told me a week ago that my fate would hinge on an exiled elf’s whims, I would’ve spat in their face. Yet here I am, forced to consider whether I can use Xelith’s interest to protect the remaining rebels.

My eyelids droop, heaviness sinking into my limbs. Pain and weariness tug me toward sleep. I let out a trembling breath, determined to stay alert. But the day’s events—the scuffle in the antechamber, the re-opened wound—are too much.

At some point, I doze. My dreams are restless—images of farmland aflame, the faces of fallen comrades, the echoing laughter of Dark Elves.

Then, a swirl of silver hair and a low voice that wraps around me like a snare.

Xelith. He stands in a pool of shadows, beckoning me forward, offering a hand.

I want to slash at him, but his presence draws me closer.

I jerk awake, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. My surroundings remain the same—a cramped suite with dull torchlight. The stew bowl sits empty on the table. My side throbs dully, but the bandage holds. The chain is still locked around my wrists. I rub at the sore spots, wincing.

Somewhere outside, bells toll quietly—maybe marking the hour. Could be midnight, or close to it. My mouth feels parched, so I shuffle to the table where a clay pitcher of water waits. When I tip it to drink, the chain rattles again, a mocking accompaniment to my every move.

I won’t remain like this forever. The thought surges through me.

If Xelith has singled me out, then perhaps I can find a way to exploit his interest. He wants to leverage me against the council?

Fine. I can pretend to cooperate if it means gaining the upper hand later.

My rebellion might be splintered, but not extinct.

I owe it to the survivors to keep fighting—even if that fight takes a far more subtle shape now.

I swallow a mouthful of water, letting the cool liquid soothe my dry throat.

Catalyst. That’s what Xelith is. My entire trajectory has shifted from a direct battle for freedom to this precarious dance of alliances.

It’s not what I wanted, but it’s what I have.

And if I must sacrifice a piece of my pride for a chance to protect those who remain, I’ll do it—so long as I never lose sight of the goal.

I sink onto the bed again, trying not to jostle my wounded side.

My thoughts churn, refusing to settle. I recall the female official’s sneering face in the antechamber, the hush that fell when they revealed Xelith’s claim.

The memory sends a flicker of something like relief through me—an odd reaction.

Perhaps because their hostility was overshadowed by the knowledge that I still draw breath.

In the gloom, I think about what my next move should be.

Maybe I’ll demand an audience with Xelith, push him for details of his so-called plan.

If he wants me as a piece on his board, I’ll make sure the terms benefit me—and by extension, any rebels left out there.

I refuse to roll over meekly and become his toy.

My fingers curl around the chain. The cold metal presses into my skin, a constant reminder of my current powerlessness.

But I hold on to the spark of defiance that carried me through the battlefield and into this fortress.

If the day ever comes that I stand over these Dark Elves, free of these shackles, I’ll remember exactly how it felt to be in chains.

Time crawls. I hear distant footsteps again, but they fade quickly. No one comes. I slip into another bout of restless dozing, drifting in and out of shallow sleep. The fortress never truly quiets. Every so often, raised voices or armor clanking jars me awake.

At some point—perhaps early morning?—the door finally opens.

Light from the corridor spills in, momentarily blinding me.

I scramble to sit up, blinking. Two guards step inside, accompanied by a robed elf who carries a coil of parchment and a quill.

She regards me briefly, then gestures to the guards. “Stand her up.”

They yank me to my feet, ignoring my hiss of pain.

The robed elf raises an eyebrow, as though noting my battered condition with mild interest. “Time for a formal record. The council wants it documented that you’ve been claimed by Prince Xelith under provisional authority.

You will confirm this, or face immediate sentencing. ”

My throat constricts. “Sentencing,” meaning a swift execution, no doubt. My pulse trips, but I nod stiffly. “Fine. Confirm it.”

She unrolls the parchment on the table, smoothing its surface. “Do you swear”—her tone carries a mocking lilt—“that you are held in the custody of Prince Xelith Vaeranthe, under penalty of death should you attempt escape or further rebellion within these walls?”

I clench my teeth. “I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?”

She merely waits, quill poised. One guard tightens his grip on my arm. I suck in a breath, tasting humiliation like bile. “Yes,” I manage through gritted teeth. “I’m in his custody.”

The robed elf scratches notes onto the parchment, the quill’s rasp deafening in the hush. Then she lifts her gaze. “Once he finalizes the claim, you’ll be relocated to quarters of his choosing. Until then, you remain here.”

With that, she rolls up the parchment and strides out, the guards trailing behind.

The door slams shut once more, leaving me trembling with anger.

They’ve just forced me to acknowledge myself as belonging to Xelith in official records.

My arms shake with the need to punch something.

But I can’t risk more punishment right now.

I slump against the bed frame, panting lightly from the emotional toll.

My body is exhausted, and my mind churns with a thousand conflicting emotions.

Pride wars with the urge to survive. Rage battles faint relief that I’m not dead yet.

And above all, a burning conviction that I can’t let them break me.

Freedom vs. Power. The fortress’s dark corridors loom in my mind’s eye, a labyrinth of manipulation and cruelty.

If Xelith truly sees me as a means to an end, then I’ll be the sharpest blade in his arsenal—one he can’t easily turn against me without cutting himself.

If I’m careful, maybe there’s a path to help the remnants of my rebellion.

Eventually, I collapse onto the narrow bed, forcing my eyes shut.

Sleep is the only way to quiet the roar of conflicting thoughts.

For better or worse, I’ve been singled out by Prince Xelith.

My fate is now intertwined with his ambitions.

It’s a terrifying prospect, yet it’s also the catalyst that might save me from immediate death.

Despite the dread pooling in my stomach, a grim resolve settles over me. If I must bend slightly to survive, I’ll do it with a blade hidden behind my back. One day, these chains will fall away—and I will ensure every sacrifice I’ve made leads to the freedom we deserve.

That promise echoes in my head as I drift, half-aware of the fortress stirring around me, half lost in the swirling tide of exhaustion. Tomorrow, I’ll face Xelith again, and the real game will begin. I won’t allow him to—or any other Dark Elf—decide my fate without a fight.