Page 5

ELYRIA

I can’t stop replaying last night’s chaos in my mind.

By the time Zhorath drags me back to the cramped slave quarters, the storm has torn itself out across the skies, leaving the fortress battered and tense.

Everyone feels the reverberations of the attempted infiltration: dark elves stomping through corridors, demanding to know how a gargoyle managed to slip inside.

Hushed talk of scattered bodies, of half a dozen guards found dead and drained of blood in the halls.

Gargoyles, the rumors whisper. They can slip through cracks in the night, a terror from above. The fortress’s masters are furious and afraid, and that crack in their confidence is the only reason I dare hope for a successful escape now.

Because I see how frantically they roam the corridors, demanding accountability.

I see how the usual discipline over the slaves lapses as the overseers scramble to answer their superiors.

The entire place is one raw nerve, and fear is thicker than the stench of rot.

If ever there was a chance to flee, it’s when your captors are preoccupied with a bigger threat.

Even so, my heart hammers in my chest as I crouch in a cramped corner of the slave quarters, chain coiled around my ankles.

The small rectangular room is dimly lit by a single guttering lamp.

A half-dozen other slaves huddle around me, their eyes hollow.

Everyone is trembling, exhausted from a day and night of brutality and panic.

Zhorath keeps us here with the chain locked to a metal ring in the wall.

Usually, we’re too broken to consider pulling free.

But I’m not broken yet.

I’m bruised, half-starved, and my arms and legs still ache from scrubbing floors in a thunderstorm, yet I can’t let go of the idea that it might be now or never.

While the dark elves are reeling from the gargoyle incursion, maybe I can slip away.

And yes, there is a part of me that clenches with terror at the thought of gargoyles out in the wild, waiting to snuff out human women.

But what’s the alternative? Life here is a slow death.

I dig my fingers under the iron collar around my neck.

It’s battered and rusted but still sturdy as sin.

Tearing it off with brute strength is impossible, but I might not need to remove it entirely if I can just free the chain that tethers me.

I test the ring bolt in the wall. It’s old, crumbling around the edges.

My breath rattles with excitement. I bite my lip, risking a whisper to the nearest slave, a woman named Selin.

“Help me loosen the bolt,” I say. “If we can pry it free, I can?—”

She just stares at me, eyes wide with dread. “They’ll kill us if they find out.”

“They’ll kill us anyway,” I mutter, my voice trembling with pent-up frustration. “Look at what they did last night. Guards are on edge. They’re not watching us as closely as usual. We might never get a chance like this again.”

She winces, glancing around at the others. No one else moves. They’re too terrified of the repercussions. Slowly, I realize it’s just me—the only one with a shred of defiance left.

My hands are shaky as I grip the bolt with my fingertips.

The mortar around it feels crumbly. I twist, push, pull.

Inch by inch, I manage to loosen the bracket anchoring the ring to the wall.

Each squeak of metal against stone makes my pulse skyrocket, but the steady hum of tense activity beyond the door conceals any small noises I make.

Seconds turn to minutes. I grit my teeth, ignoring how raw and numb my fingers become.

Finally, with a muffled pop , the bracket gives.

The ring slides out, leaving behind a jagged hole.

I freeze, expecting some guard or overseer to burst in—but no one does.

Outside, I hear only the echo of angry voices and frantic bootsteps.

“I’m leaving,” I whisper to the others. My adrenaline is so high I feel almost detached from my body. “I—I can’t stay.”

Selin’s eyes fill with tears. She doesn’t say a word, just gives a tiny, sorrowful shake of her head. The others remain silent, unwilling or unable to risk what I’m about to do. My heart aches, but I can’t carry them all with me. I can barely hope to save myself.

I rise to my feet, chain in hand. The collar is still fastened tight around my neck, but at least no one is holding the other end.

I coil the slack so it doesn’t clink and slip to the narrow door, pressing my ear against the wood.

Beyond, the corridor is alive with tension.

I hear footsteps racing by and distant shouts.

Steeling myself, I ease the door open a fraction. The hallway is dimly lit by a single sconce. Two dark elf guards hurry past, each wearing heavy boots that clatter on the stone. My breath catches when I see them, fear spiking. If they spot me, it’s the lash… or worse.

They vanish around the corner, leaving the corridor momentarily empty.

Now. I slide out, pressing my back to the cold stone.

The air here smells of sweat, sour with fear.

I clutch the coil of chain with trembling fingers.

My plan is half-formed: get out of the slave quarters, find a route to the fortress’s perimeter, slip out while the guards are in chaos.

My stomach twists as I recall that the outside world offers no real safety. The gargoyles are out there, hunting. But I have to take that chance. Better to gamble on outrunning them than to remain certain I’ll die in chains.

I hurry down the hall, mindful of the scuffing of my bare feet. Every so often, I flatten myself into an alcove when I hear footsteps. Twice, dark elves jog by me, cursing under their breath about incompetent watchers and how in the abyss gargoyles got inside the fortress.

A swirl of memory hits me: in the courtyard last night, through the sheets of rain, I could’ve sworn I saw a gargoyle overhead—a massive shape with broad wings. For an instant, I’d felt something like… recognition. As if his eyes were on me, specifically. Then the thunder boomed, and he was gone.

The memory sets my heart thudding again, but I push it aside. I don’t have time for that. Right now, I need to focus on each precarious step.

At the next fork, I recall from my forced labor routes that one corridor leads toward the kitchens and outer courtyards; the other descends deeper into the fortress, toward the dungeons and storerooms. I want out , so I pick the corridor leading up.

If I can reach the courtyard, maybe I can slip under the portcullis or find a crumbling section of wall.

Blood pounds in my ears as I creep forward. The chain around my neck drags on the floor with the faintest scrape; I bunch the links in one hand, desperate to keep them quiet. Every breath feels like a risk.

I pass a doorway I recognize as the main kitchen.

The door stands ajar, revealing a chaotic scene: two dark elves bark orders at exhausted human slaves who kneel, scrubbing the floor.

A large pot boils, filling the room with steam.

No one notices me in the shadows. My pulse leaps. Stay quiet, Elyria.

Slipping past, I round another corner and find myself in a small corridor that ends at a heavy wooden gate. Beyond that gate lies the main courtyard. So close.

I rest my hand against the wood, feeling it vibrate with movement outside. My muscles clench as I press my ear to it. Muffled voices, scraping boots on stone. A tremor of doubt wracks me: how many guards are out there? Would it be safer to look for a less obvious exit?

But I’m running low on time. The fortress is frantic, but the dark elves won’t remain so distracted forever. If anyone checks the slave quarters, they’ll notice I’m gone. I have to move quickly.

I ease the gate open a crack and peer into the courtyard.

The pale daylight is a welcome change from the fortress’s gloom, but it also means fewer places to hide.

Several dark elf soldiers cluster around the far side of the courtyard, deep in animated conversation.

One paces back and forth, gesticulating wildly, while the others keep glancing upward, as if expecting gargoyles to descend at any moment.

To my right, a coil of rope sits abandoned near some crates, probably left there in the wake of last night’s confusion.

Beyond it, I spot an old well with a dilapidated roof.

The courtyard’s walls loom tall and menacing, broken only by a massive gate of iron bars at the far end.

That gate usually leads to a drawbridge over a rocky ravine.

If I can cross it, I’ll be out of the fortress.

But how to get there without being spotted?

I inch through the door, crouching low behind the crates.

My chain rattles softly, and I clench my teeth.

My entire body feels wired, ready to bolt or fight.

The courtyard is damp from last night’s rainfall, puddles reflecting gray clouds overhead.

The wind smells like an oncoming storm, or maybe that’s just my imagination.

Something clangs behind me, and I whip my head around in horror. I can’t see what made the noise—maybe a fallen weapon or a scurrying rodent. But the sound draws the attention of one of the soldiers, who barks, “Who’s there?”

I freeze, heart in my throat. Breathe. Don’t panic.

Seconds drag. The soldier stalks across the courtyard, glancing around, hand on his sword hilt. I curl tighter behind the crate, pressing myself as flat as possible. My chain is pinned beneath my knee to keep it from shifting. My lungs burn from holding my breath.

He’s mere steps away. I see the glint of his black armor, the tension in his posture. If he comes any closer, he’ll spot me for sure. My mind spirals: I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m…

A sharp cry echoes from the other side of the courtyard: “Captain! Over here!”

The soldier wheels around. “What is it?”