Page 5 of Eluvonia (Rift of Ages #1)

AERIS

A s I tread through the tunnel, the gritty stone floor scratches the soles of my bare feet.

Each step is deliberate, a whisper against the silence.

My breaths are slow and measured—a survival instinct bred from years of hiding.

The damp, earthy scent of the underground clings to my skin, curling into my lungs with every inhale.

Torchlight flickers along the jagged walls, stretching shadows into long, twisting figures that dance and writhe like restless spirits.

We let the twins drop off the deer with the cooks while Leynard and I kept watch at the cave entrance.

After an hour of silence, we decided to head to the cavern we call the war room to brief my father.

I shouldn’t be going—I know that. But after what we just saw, there’s no way I’m sitting this out. He has to listen to me. Just this once.

Leynard walks beside me in silence, his gaze forward, his expression unreadable. He’s taller than me by a full head, his shoulders broad with the weight of responsibility.

The leather of his boots scuffs lightly against the ground, a contrast to my near-silent movements. He carries himself with a quiet authority, a warrior trained and hardened by necessity, but I know him well enough to catch the tension in his jaw.

We step through the archway into the war room. The air here is thick—metallic. A large fire crackles in the center, its light casting long shadows over the crates of weapons stacked against the walls.

The scent of burning wood mingles with the iron tang of steel, a reminder of the battles fought and the ones still to come.

My father leans over a massive map spread across a worn wooden table, the edges curling from age and use.

His gray hair, streaked with white, dangles in loose strands around his face, deep lines etched into his skin from years of war and loss.

His pointed ears peek through, a subtle but undeniable mark of our Fae heritage.

He wears his leathers—patchwork armor salvaged from fallen Dragon warriors—like a second skin.

It’s worn, patched over too many times to count, but he wears it with quiet pride.

He deserves better. But he never complains.

His storm-gray eyes lift from the map first to Leynard, then to me. His gaze hardens. “Aeris.” My name is a warning, sharp and cold as the stone beneath my feet. “You know you’re not allowed in here. Leave.”

The words strike like a slap, but I refuse to flinch. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. “But we saw a Dragon—”

He cuts me off with a look, his stare like an axe coming down between us. My throat tightens.

“Leynard. Report.” His voice is iron, dismissing me as if I never spoke.

Leynard hesitates for only a fraction of a second before stepping forward. “We confirmed the sighting,” he says, his tone measured, steady. “Large. Close. It wasn’t just passing through.”

My father exhales slowly, his fingers pressing into the map, knuckles whitening. His silence says more than words ever could.

I bite the inside of my cheek, my breath coming fast and uneven. He doesn’t even acknowledge me.

Leynard casts me a quick, apologetic glance, the corners of his mouth tugging downward. I see it—the silent plea to let it go. But I can’t.

My body moves before I can stop it, stepping forward again. “We need to—”

“Enough,” my father snaps, finally looking at me. His eyes bore into mine, filled with something heavy and unyielding. “This is not your place, Aeris. Get out.”

The finality in his voice slams into me like a door locking shut.

Heat surges up my spine, burning under my skin. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, my breath shaking with the effort to hold back the words I want to spit at him.

But it wouldn’t matter. It never does.

I’m always the afterthought, the one left standing in the shadow of decisions made without me.

It gnaws at something deep inside, a bitter ache that never quite fades.

I should be used to it by now—the way he brushes past me, the way my voice never seems to carry enough weight.

But tonight, the sting feels sharper, like a fresh wound torn open again .

Without another word, I spin on my heel and stalk out of the war room, my bare feet scuffing against the cold stone. My vision tunnels as I weave through the familiar passageways, each turn memorized from years of wandering these caves. No one calls after me. No one stops me.

Why would they? I’m not essential. I never have been.

My fingers trail against the rough stone, nails scraping against the jagged surface. The sharp bite of pain is grounding. Real. Unlike the illusion of control I keep clinging to, the belief that maybe—just maybe—one day, I won’t be the one left behind.

The tunnel narrows as I duck beneath an outcrop of rock—a spot I’ve hit my head on too many times to count. A few more steps, and I slip into a small side chamber. My chamber. My sanctuary.

The space isn’t much, but it’s mine. The walls press in close, the air heavy with the scent of earth, stone, and the faint traces of smoke that never fully fade from the tunnels. It should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like an embrace—one of the few places where I can simply exist.

My bed, a lumpy collection of dried leaves and cloth scraps, waits in the corner.

I drop onto it with a soft grunt, crossing my legs and stretching my arms overhead until my shoulders pop.

“Another day in paradise, maybe a nap will make me feel better,” I mumble to myself, rubbing the back of my neck.

I unstrap my bow from my back, laying it across my lap. My fingers glide over the wood, checking for cracks or warping. With practiced ease, I take a small cloth from a nearby crate and begin rubbing down the limbs, ensuring no moisture has seeped into the grain.

The rhythmic motion steadies me, grounding me in something tangible.

Reaching for a tin of bowstring wax, I pinch a bit between my fingers, rolling it until it softens before smoothing it over the string in slow, deliberate strokes.

The scent of resin and oil fills the air, familiar and comforting.

I test the tension, drawing the string back just enough to feel its resistance. It holds firm.

A small, satisfied smirk tugs at my lips. “Still got it,” I murmur under my breath.

Next, I inspect my arrows, lifting each one to the dim light filtering in from the tunnel. My fingers trace the wooden shafts, searching for imperfections. The fletching on a few is bent, the feathers frayed at the edges. I smooth them down as best I can, making a mental note to replace them soon.

When I reach the tips, I test one against my fingertip. A sharp sting follows, a bead of blood welling up. I hiss softly, shaking my hand before pressing the cut to my lips. “Yup, that’s sharp,” I mutter. At least something around here is.

Satisfied, I unstring my bow, setting it and the quiver within arm’s reach before collapsing onto my bed. My blanket—a patchwork of scavenged fabrics stitched together over the years—scratches against my skin as I pull it over me. It’s rough, worn, but warm.

My eyes drift to the jagged ceiling, tracing the faint mineral streaks in the rock. The patterns blur together, shifting and twisting, much like the thoughts tumbling through my head.

I don’t belong.

The realization settles like a stone in my chest, heavy and suffocating.

No one needs me. No one waits for me. I exist in the spaces between their lives, a passing figure, acknowledged but never truly seen.

I try—I have tried—to carve out a place for myself, to prove that I am more than just a name spoken in passing.

But no matter how hard I push, I remain on the outskirts, always looking in.

My fingers toy with a loose thread on the blanket, pulling and twisting absentmindedly. My mind drifts, searching for an escape.

For a brief, reckless moment, I consider sneaking out. The woods call to me, whispering promises of quiet and freedom, of crisp air and open skies.Out there, the weight of loneliness, of being unwanted, wouldn’t press so heavily on my chest.

But even the thought of freedom feels distant, unreachable. The exhaustion in my limbs isn’t just physical—it’s deeper than that, woven into my very being.

So I stay. Rooted in place. Trapped between wanting to be part of something and knowing, deep down, that I never truly will be.

Instead, I let the chamber’s silence pull me under.

Sleep takes me in its grip, and in my dreams, there is only fire.

I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a war drum. Flames flicker at the edges of my mind—dark, curling smoke, the scent of burning, the sound of something massive stirring in the shadows.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

But the cold dread it leaves behind coils tight around my ribs, refusing to let go.

I exhale sharply, forcing the tension from my shoulders.

My chamber is dim, the only light seeping in through cracks in the cavern walls, casting long, uneven shadows across the stone.

I let my gaze sweep over the familiar space—the worn blankets, my scattered gear, the bow propped against the wall .

Nothing is out of place. Nothing waiting to strike from the dark.

“Just a dream,” I murmur, though my voice is rough, uneven. Running a hand through my tangled red hair, I push the lingering unease aside and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The cold stone bites against my bare feet.

Habit kicks in.

I reach for my quiver and bow, slipping the straps over my shoulders. The weight is familiar, grounding. As I step outside my chamber, I take a right down the winding tunnel, my steps steady but quick. The cavern opens up ahead, sprawling and alive with movement.

Makeshift tents of fabric and tarps stretch across the rocky expanse. The murmur of voices hums through the air, punctuated by the occasional clang of metal and bursts of laughter.