Page 19

At Their Mercy

W hen I spot the shadow, it’s so early in the day that the morning prayer hasn’t yet begun, and neither the hares nor the deer have emerged.

A dense mist blankets the ground, and the first sparrows chirp softly as dawn’s light trickles through the tangled canopy of leaves and branches above.

The warm scent of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, making my mouth water and awakening a hunger deep within me.

It mingles with the sharp tang of smoke and the faint, biting essence of frost and icicles, subtle but undeniable in the crisp morning chill.

I grip the bars, now slick and damp from the night.

My fingers catch as I run them along the rough, frozen surface; the winter frost stubbornly grips my skin as the metal, coated in dew, has hardened into ice.

I lean forward, gazing at the still eredawn, soft and white, like the petals of a magnolia in bloom.

My heart feels heavy, and my lips are stiff from the cold.

Aeralon is gone.

All that remains are the marks in the snow and the holes where the torch stakes stood—holes driven into the earth. Around them, the snow has melted; what was slushy is now frozen solid. Ash lingers, staining the mixture of snow and soil and tainting it with its dark presence.

Two early-rising elves arrange goods on the market stalls.

Another feeds the elk with bundles of coarse hay, ensuring they’re well-fed for another day of hard labor.

The animals grunt and eagerly dive into their meal.

A third elf stands waist-deep in a snowdrift, hunched over as he digs intently for something hidden beneath the frozen layers.

Where are the spiders? Have they been watching me all night, hidden in the shadows? Or have they disappeared entirely?

I tilt my head back, squinting into the black void above, searching for any sign of movement.

Out of the corner of my eye, something dark and swift flashes across my vision. My gaze snaps toward the market.

A silhouette shadow, deep gray against the white snow, gliding across the frosted landscape.

The elves freeze in place, their tasks forgotten. Their eyes lift toward the leaf-strewn sky, scanning with awe and dread. Step by step, they retreat, their mouths agape in silent disbelief.

And then they scream.

I can’t look up. My eyes stay fixed on the massive shadow sliding across the ground. It’s all I need to see.

The sharp tang of blood coats my tongue, bitter and metallic. My mouth feels dry, and my tongue is thick and swollen. My legs buckle, and my knees hit the solid earth with a hollow thud.

I stare toward the forest.

The majestic wings move steadily, disappearing into the distance. The shadow grows smaller, fading along Gann Gavannoa.

And then I hear it.

Thump. Thump.

Heavy, deliberate, like a heartbeat.

Thump. Thump.

“A monster!” the woman arranging goods at one of the stalls screams. Everything she holds—sacks, shovels, spices, and lingonberries—tumbles in a chaotic scatter.

Her scream rises again, sharper this time, so piercing it feels as though it might split my eardrums. “A monster!”

Thump. Thump.

The elves erupt into chaos, clutching at each other, overturning carts, and shouting frantically. I stand frozen, watching in quiet disbelief. I’m unsure how to respond. I’m not sure if what I saw was real. Could it have been a monster? Monsters don’t exist.

“Sound the drums!” someone shouts, sprinting so fast they blur into motion. “Alert the council! Sound the drums!”

“Run! Warn everyone you can!”

“Flee!”

“Get out of here!”

The pounding of feet echoes everywhere—chaos, screams, hysteria.

Thump. Thump.

“Durothil! Durothil! Where are you?”

Thump. Thump.

I pull myself upright and grab the bars again, shaking them with all my strength. They groan and screech, the sound cutting through my ears like a blade. “Hey!” I shout, my breath ragged, panic clawing at my throat. “Let me out! Let me out! I’m not staying here with that monster!”

More elves flood into the square, but no one hears me. No one looks my way. No one notices. They dart in every direction, shouting, screaming, lost in panic. Parae is unraveling before my eyes.

Come on! Sound the drums!

They must sound the drums to warn everyone. Most are still asleep—my family, my friends. Parae rests, oblivious to the chaos brewing outside.

“Let me out!” I shout again, my voice breaking as I desperately search for anyone to meet my gaze. A man with tangled hair and a bulbous nose. A woman screaming at the top of her lungs. A mother cradling two infants.

No one hears me. No one notices the prisoner crying out from the shadows of the Hollow.

All I can do is watch as the world crumbles around me.

And then I see them—the armies.

They’re back, flooding in along the road. Rows of soldiers marching in perfect unison, their armor polished to a gleam, helmets glinting in the faint light. Their crown swords are held steady, their heads high, their eyes sharp, and their weapons ready for blood.

A grim alliance of black elves, flat ears and thick ears. Star elves, humans, and dwarves. Three races joined, united in purpose, marching as one force of destruction.

And yet, the drums remain silent.

The elves haven’t woken. Only those screaming as they flee across the square, darting cowardly into the forest or scrambling wildly up tree trunks.

The armies are upon them.

They cut them down before my eyes. Swords slicing through the air, sharp, swift, and dripping with blood. Lethal.

Screams echo everywhere. Blood pools everywhere. The stench of death, fear, black elves, and pure malice fills the air, thick and suffocating. It seeps into the depths of my body, clinging to my lungs like a suffocating sludge, refusing to let go.

I retreat into the darkness. Step by step, I back away. The ground beneath me is cold and unforgiving, the moss rough against my skin. Blood rushes through my veins, my breaths coming fast and frantic. I can’t draw in one lungful of air before the next gasp demands its turn.

My palms press against the wall. I’ve gone as far back as possible. I move them to my lips, desperate to muffle the scream clawing at my throat. My hands are icy, cooling my teeth with their chill.

Am I still dreaming? Is this real?

It’s so absurd that a laugh almost escapes me. This can’t be happening.

Thump. Thump.

The heartbeats. The wings. They’re back.

Thump. Thump.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my lids so tightly that a sharp ache spreads across my cheekbones.

Somewhere nearby, a massive body crashes to the ground, and the impact sends violent tremors rippling through the earth. The ground beneath me heaves as if caught in the grip of an earthquake.

Everything shatters, screeches, and roars in a cacophony that reverberates deep into my bones, rattling me to my core.

I collapse to the floor, my hands instinctively grabbing a root. I cling to it desperately, as if its rough, solid texture could protect me from the terror waiting just beyond the bars.

The smell of smoke invades the Hollow, thick and acrid. When I dare to open my eyes, everything is ablaze. The bark of the tree across from me is engulfed in flames, market stalls collapse into smoldering ruins, and the moose bolt in terror. Their eyes roll wildly, their mouths foaming as they run.

No! I can’t just sit here and watch. I must get out! But how? How do I escape? I must do something. I must warn my family. Naeva. Oh, Naeva. Aeralon. Mother and Father. Keelan.

Clutching the root in my hands, I force myself to stand. The violent shaking has stopped, replaced by a faint tremor beneath my feet. What can I do? How can I get out? I’d do anything—anything.

“úri!” I shout toward the ceiling. “Kra!”

No answer.

“úRI!”

I scream so loudly it feels as if my vocal cords might tear. Let the enemy hear, I don’t care. The spiders said there were tunnels in the ceiling, passages through the trunk. But the ceiling is too high, and the walls are smooth, unlike bark. There’s nothing to climb.

I press my foot against the wall, trying desperately to find some hold. But as soon as I shift my weight forward, my foot slips and my nails scrape uselessly against the wood.

It’s hopeless. The thin roots only stretch to knee height, and everything above is smooth, soft, and polished, just as the inside of a tree should be.

“An elf screams and yells, calling and shrieking. Spiders are here.”

I freeze, a shiver running through me. “You’re here!”

“What does an elf want spiders to do? Is the elf feeling lonely?” The voice is coarse. It must be úri.

I glance upward, squinting as smoke curls into the room, stinging my eyes and forcing tears to the surface. Two dark shapes form against the ceiling, their pale eyes glinting with an otherworldly sheen.

“I need your help,” I manage, my voice tight.

“Elves bleed,” úri murmurs, his furry body swaying lazily as he descends slightly on an invisible thread. “An elf wants to survive.”

“That’s right.” I quickly glance at the exit, searching for any trace of the monster. There’s nothing but fire, smoke, and roaring flames. “I have to get out. I have to warn my family.”

“And why should spiders help an elf?” úri’s voice is rough, and his unblinking eyes boring into me. “What do spiders gain from this?”

“Yes, what’s in it for Kra and úri?” Kra adds, his long legs twitching in an erratic rhythm. “An elf is frail. Weak. Will die soon enough… from the smoke.”

I clench my teeth as I step deeper into the cell. “If no one stops this attack, your home will burn to the ground! Don’t you see that?”

“An elf should breathe. Calm down,” úri says, his voice infuriatingly calm. “Yes, an elf should?—”

“This tree will die!” I shout, cutting through their words.

“Oh?”

“Your parents will die! And you’ll be left to find a new home, forced to grow up alone!”