Page 6

VALENTINA

I wake to the shriek of metal grating on metal.

In the groggy haze of morning, I can’t immediately place the sound—only that it sets every nerve on edge.

My eyes snap open to find that I’m still in the cramped Lowtown barracks I share with a dozen others.

The makeshift door stands ajar, crooked on its hinges, letting in a band of pale light.

But the shape lurking in the threshold isn’t a fellow human or a friendly face.

Dark elf soldiers block the exit.

The one in front surveys the interior like he’s checking a stable full of livestock.

Plate armor clings to his lithe frame, polished to a mirror sheen that contrasts with the filth of our hovel.

An emblem is etched over his heart—a stylized serpent twisted around a spiked crown, signifying allegiance to the Vhoig monarchy.

Behind him waits another guard, just as imposing.

Neither moves, yet menace radiates from their stance.

A sinking feeling clutches my stomach. It’s too early for roll call, and the patrols typically don’t come here unless someone has broken a rule. No one in this shack would risk that. We’ve all witnessed the consequences.

I sit up slowly from my threadbare blanket, heart pounding.

I’m aware of the other slaves around me doing the same, their tired eyes filling with panic.

It’s impossible to ignore the tension rippling through the room.

At the far corner, a woman tugs a coughing child close.

Next to me, a man tries to hide behind a rotted trunk, though there’s nowhere to truly conceal himself.

The lead soldier’s gaze rakes across the gloom until it settles on me. He raises a gauntleted hand, pointing wordlessly. My pulse spikes. I swallow hard, refusing to show fear. “Stand,” he orders, voice echoing in the cramped quarters.

I push to my feet, pain lancing through bruised muscles from yesterday’s labors. My back still aches from the savage whip scars I earned days ago, but I square my shoulders. Defiance is the only thing I have left. “What do you want?” I ask, though my throat constricts around the words.

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 our wake: 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 a gauntleted 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.