Page 17

And I Wait

“ I szaelda, are you awake?”

I rise and move to the bars. Outside, the night is pitch black, illuminated only by the moon’s pale glow and the elves’ flickering torches.

The flames leap and twist in the darkness, casting sharp light across their faces, stinging my eyes until I blink.

Sparks fall to the frozen ground, singeing tiny holes in the snow.

The air is thick with the scent of ash and burnt wood.

“Good! There you are.” Keelan. He strides closer, leaning an elbow against the bars. The metal groans under his weight. “How are you, comrade? How’s life in the miserable Hollow?”

“Shut up, Keelan.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly?—”

“Kind. No, I know. What do you want?”

“As charming as ever, I see.” He smirks, his tone infuriatingly casual.

“It was you who put me here, so what were you expecting?”

“Honestly, I?—”

“That I’d greet you with a fiery”—I shove the bars, rattling them hard enough to make him step back—”embrace?”

“It was your ideas that put you here,” he snaps, stepping farther out of reach. “I wasn’t the one who dressed up and?—”

“But you were the one who?—”

“Here we go again.” He sighs, narrowing his green eyes as he pulls his fingers back one by one, each joint cracking sharply. First his pinky, then his ring finger, then his middle finger.

“You’re the one who exposed me in front of everyone.”

He tosses his hair aside. “Not on purpose. I was trying to find a spot where no one would hear.”

“If only. You clearly lack understanding.” I snort, stepping back into the shadows, moss and twigs scraping against my feet.

“There you go again, so charming, such a lovely conversation.”

“You have no idea how good elves are at listening, do you? Even though you’re one yourself! You should know better. You should know there’s nowhere elves can’t hear!”

“And what should I have done, then, oh wise one?” He leans closer, pressing his weight against the bars, heavier than before.

“You should’ve kept your mouth”—I drag a hand across my lips in a sharp, symbolic gesture—“shut.”

He lets out a laugh, his face dark and shadowed, the crown of his head illuminated by the flickering torches.

The fine hairs, usually invisible, catch the light, forming a wild, unruly halo around him.

The other elves begin settling into the snow, forming a circle.

The ground creaks beneath their weight, and the fire crackles softly in the stillness.

“I had to question you somehow , you know.”

“No, you didn’t. You could’ve waited until afterward, couldn’t you?” I take a sudden step forward, sharply enough to make him flinch.

“Then it would’ve been too late. You might’ve won.”

“Imagine that… I might have.” I lean closer, my voice a low hiss through the bars. Close enough that our breaths mingle in the cold air. Close enough that I can see the faint blemishes on his chin.

His scent. Honey and pepper fill the narrow space between us.

“Sesta, how dreadful that would’ve been. Winning. It was exactly what I wanted. Can you even begin to imagine?”

“Yeah, yeah. Stop being so dramatic.” He drags his hand along the bars, grinning at me, his messy hair falling across his forehead. “The leaf has already fallen. You’ll get out eventually. Blah, blah, blah. Stop complaining and think positively, comrade.”

“Oh, Keelan, I want to hit you right now.” I want to scream it, but I whisper instead, lowering my voice with each word until he has to hold his breath to catch them. “Exactly what’s positive about this situation?”

He presses his face against the bars, his lips mere flakes away from mine. They’re dry today. Chapped. Has he been peeling the skin? Not exactly attractive.

“What’s positive is that I was one of the winners.” His grin widens as he sweeps a hand theatrically over himself. “They picked me, Leorilon, and Jaeowil.”

“Well, congratulations.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “Lucky for you that you managed to get me disqualified. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have stood a fiery chance.”

“Hey, calm down. We came here to keep you company, to be nice, and?—”

“Mmm, sure you did.”

“We were thinking of you. We figured we’d share some scary stories and thought you might want to join.”

“Oh, really?”

“But if you’re going to be this bitter, we might as well just?—”

“Keelan!” Aeralon’s voice cuts through sharply, his jaw tight as he strides toward us. We both flinch. “Stop antagonizing my sister. She’s frustrated about what happened, don’t you get that? Go hang out with Elvalad instead. Leave her alone!”

“Take it easy,” Keelan mutters, stepping away reluctantly. He drops onto the ground a short distance away, settling beside his closest friend, Elvalad Suernín. Though they call each other brothers, they’re not related.

Keelan’s father died in the attack on Insisriel, as did Elvalad’s mother. On the long journey to what would later become Parae, their surviving parents found each other and joined as one.

Elvalad. Another elf I despise. Come to think of it, there aren’t many I like at all.

“Well, isn’t it lovely to see you here, Aeralon.” I force every ounce of effort into being friendly toward one of the few elves I like.

“You didn’t think I’d miss this, did you? A phenomenal chance to spend time with my little criminal warrior sister.”

I laugh outright. “Oh, is that what I’m to you?”

“You’re not so little anymore.” He grins widely. “But the rest checks out.”

“Watch it!” I shove the bars, making them rattle. “You’d better behave!”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a near whisper, soft enough that no one else should be able to hear. But I know better than to trust that. “It was Keelan’s first day today.”

“Oh?” I press my ear closer to the warmth of his breath, the icy metal of the bars biting against my skin. He smells of granite and soap.

“You should’ve seen him.”

“What happened?”

“What didn’t happen?”

“Oh.” I can’t help but smirk at the wall, watching the flickering, hypnotic light of the torches. The flames move like waves, like long, otherworldly arms, painting shifting patterns on the walls of the Hollow. The light stretches halfway into the cell before the darkness devours it completely.

“It might not look like it, but I’d bet his guilt is enormous. He knows they would’ve chosen you over him, and he’s only there because he exposed you. Or, as you would say, he’s the worst.”

“Good.” I nod slightly, letting a satisfied grin curl at the corners of my mouth as I meet Aeralon’s gaze. His steady eyes, usually a soft mossy green, are darker now, almost like stewed spinach.

“Did it make you feel better?”

“Oh, absolutely. Thank you, barea. I needed that.”

He gives me a quick, knowing smile before sliding down to sit with his back against the bars, his legs crossed in a relaxed position.

The men sit in a circle, their torches plunged into the thick snow at its center.

Alongside Aeralon, Keelan, and Elvalad are Garalas, Leorilon, Jaeowil, and Daeroal, Iminya’s older brother.

All are part of the defense. All young. The older members have little interest in such things as scary stories.

I like Daeroal. He reminds me of my brother in many ways, and he’s one of his closest friends.

“Who wants to start?” Garalas asks, a smug grin stretching across his face as the flickering torchlight dances over his features. Behind him lies nothing but darkness—the deep, endless black.

The forest hums around us. The hoots of tawny and pearl owls, the soft rustle of leaves, the wind tugging at branches, and the sharp whistle of gusts through the treetops.

Occasionally, the wind shakes loose a cascade of snow, sending it tumbling down.

One sheet falls onto a torch, causing it to flare brightly before hissing and dying with a sharp crackle.

The familiar scent of ash wafts toward me.

“I’ll start,” says Jaeowil. “Have you heard the story of— Wait, no, not that one.” He runs a hand through his hair, pausing for a moment before continuing. “This one. About the sun elf Onea who got lost and ended up in Eytherthlarn. Anyone heard it?”

“Boring,” I mutter. I’ve heard it at least eight hundred times. But since he’s new to the defense and no one knows him, no one dares to object.

I let the words wash over me, tuning out as my attention shifts to the others’ faces. Their expressions, their easy smiles. A pang of bitterness tightens in my chest, sharp enough to make me grit my teeth and press my palms harder against the splintered bars.

I watch them. Darkly.

There they sit, the men with their perfect lives. Lives I will never have.

Yet, I’m better than at least half of them. Better at archery, better at swordsmanship, better at strategy.

When Jaeowil finishes, Garalas takes over. His story is about what happens when a woman named Cauladra crosses the border into the foreign land of Baraatien. She goes there. And, of course, she dies. Every scary story ends the same way.

“Oh, come on!” I exclaim. “Doesn’t anyone have something better?”

“Are you bored, darling?” Garalas asks in his velvety voice, puckering his lips. He looks like a cross between Stara and a Napoleon fish.

“These are the same old stories,” I say, crossing my arms. “Created by our ancestors to stop us from doing anything disobedient.”

“Well, well, look at that.” He raises an eyebrow, tossing his light-blond hair with a practiced flair. “Maybe you should’ve listened. Considering where you’ve ended up and all.”

I ignore him. “Doesn’t anyone know a true story?”

The group falls silent, even Garalas. The only sounds are our steady breaths and the crackling of the fire. Around us, the snow has melted away, exposing the trampled earth beneath, dark, damp, and streaked with ash.

“I have one,” Daeroal says, his calm tenor cutting through the stillness. His face glows faintly red in the flickering torchlight, his eyes catching the light, sharp and gleaming. “From what I’ve heard, it’s supposed to be true.”

“Is it one of the usual ones?” I ask. Elves love their stories. We’re such a cautious, timid species that the only adventures we know are the ones passed down to us. You grow up hearing countless tales, most of which you’ve listened to more than once.

“Not this time.” Daeroal shakes his head, his blond braids shifting against his back. “It’s a story my father told me. He heard it himself in Insisriel. It’s not supposed to be shared, but?—”

“Why not?” Keelan asks, leaning forward.

“Because it’s about him. ”

Everyone draws a sharp breath.

I press closer to the bars, sinking behind Aeralon, my knees pressing into the cold, packed earth as I listen, every sense on edge.

“About… ’Ksnaka?” Jaeowil asks, his voice uncertain.

“Yes, about the serpent, ’Ksnaka. Akares Dorne. The Dark One, the Black One, the Vile One—the Scourge of the Star Elves. Call him what you will.”

“Go on,” I urge.

Aeralon chuckles softly, his fingers brushing the back of my hand. “Now you’re paying attention.”

Daeroal clears his throat, warming his hands over the torchlight. “Once, beneath the ancient suns of the first cycles, countless rays ago?—”

I sigh. Stories always begin the same way.

“During the age of Askymnon, when Akares was only four hundred and one sun cycles old,” Daeroal begins.

“So young,” someone whispers. I can’t see who, but it sounds like Jaeowil.

“Practically a child.”

“Star elves are born without abilities,” Daeroal continues, shifting slightly as his eyes dart toward me and Aeralon.

He offers a quick wink, his round face soft and open, his dew-blue eyes radiating warmth.

“Nor can they wield nature magic, not since they broke away from the rest of us. Instead, they possess?—”

“What?” Jaeowil interrupts.

I tilt my head and wait.