Page 27

Cut Off from Nature

I join her scream, and soon, the room fills with star elves. Their eyes dart between me and the first woman, their expressions unreadable. A strange smell clings to them, as if their breath carries the heavy scent of tar.

They look alien and are dressed in short black garments that expose skin covered in tattoos and white symbols. Lines, triangles, runes, and stars are etched across their bodies, reaching up to their faces, blended with thin, straight scars on their wrists.

“What’s going on?” someone asks. “What are you doing?”

“Look!”

“What’s all this noise?”

“She’s stopped sleeping.”

“Wide awake now, it seems.”

“Just look at her.”

I sit up again, the bed groaning beneath me as my back presses against the cold wall.

I clutch the blanket tightly, peering cautiously over its edge to take in the strangers—four men and two women.

They argue loudly, their voices ricocheting off the walls, filling the room.

Occasionally, one of them points at me with exaggerated gestures.

Their voices are rough, their dialect strange. Harsh. It carries an edge, raw and guttural, like predators growling to instill fear in their prey, each word laced with a dangerous sharpness.

Who are they? Where am I?

Am I their prisoner?

My gaze locks on one of the men. Two massive horns arch from his head, and beneath his eyes are two white lines painted across his dark skin.

He’s less involved in the conversation than the others, saying nothing, his full lips pressed tightly shut.

But it’s the way he watches me that makes my chest tighten—like he wants to see me suffer.

His stare is unrelenting, cold as the dead of winter. His eyes pierce me, sharp and unforgiving. Glossy, pitch-black hair frames his face, thick and straight, falling just to his waist. Short by their standards.

He stands the farthest away, yet he feels the closest. The most dangerous. His energy is as dark as his skin, and his body language radiates hostility.

He hates me.

But why?

A third woman enters the room, squeezing past the others. Her collarbones jut out like branches, and she’s a head shorter than everyone else. Her face is round, almost childlike, framed by a mop of volcanic-red curls that flare around her like a fiery halo.

“Get out!” she barks, her voice sharp and commanding. “Out!”

The other star elves retreat, their presence dissipating like shadows. Only the first woman remains. The man with the piercing stare lingers, casting me one final, deadly glare before leaving last of all.

The red-haired woman walks toward me while the blond woman quietly closes the door behind her.

“What in the fires do you want?” I hiss, clutching the blanket tightly under my chin.

They look at me, silent, their expressions unreadable.

“And what have you done with the others? Where are they?”

The red-haired woman leans forward, her hand reaching toward the crook of my arm.

I pull away, tucking my arms tightly against my body, out of her reach.

She pauses, her movements halting, and gives me a hesitant look.

Her lips part as if she’s about to speak, but she closes them again without a word.

The blond woman moves to a chair by the wall, staying in the background. The chair creaks as she sits, and rustling follows as she picks up a bundle of folded papers. She flips through the stack with quiet focus, eyes scanning the contents closely.

“Have you lost the ability to speak?” I snap.

The star elf beside me clears her throat as she sits on the edge of the bed. Her blood-red irises lock onto mine, and a shiver runs down my spine. I press myself harder against the wall. Harder. Harder. Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.

She looks like a monster. Red eyes. Horns. They all have horns. But none as large as his . The man who stared.

“I must apologize for the commotion,” she says, her voice firm. “But here’s the situation.”

“What situation?”

“You’re all that anyone has been talking about recently. No one knew if you’d make it.” She straightens, her gaze steady. “My name is Yesira O’Kra of Dareen, First Medic. And that”—she nods toward the blond woman who doesn’t lift her head at the mention—“is Saatra Na’sel of Saltvina, Second Medic.”

“Where are the others? And why have you trapped me like this? What do you want from me?”

Yesira watches me calmly. “Which others?”

“So you only captured me?”

“We—”

“Did you kill everyone else?”

“Of course not.” She shakes her head, her curly hair rippling around her shoulders. No one has curly hair in Parae. “You’ve got that entirely wrong, Iszaelda.”

My fingers tighten around the blanket. “How do you know my name?”

“Daeroal told Kathraanis.”

“Daeroal? Kathraanis?”

She nods.

“What are you talking about?”

“If you can calm down, I’ll fetch Kathraanis for you.”

I cross my arms and glare. “Who’s Kathraanis?”

“The leader of the Academy,” Yesira replies, turning to the blond woman and digging her nails into my wrist. “Saatra, would you fetch Kathraanis?”

“Let me out instead!” I pull against her grip. “And let go of my wrist.”

“Not yet.”

Saatra looks up from the papers in her lap. “She’s still in conference with Merediath, which is essential. She emphasized the importance of not being disturbed.” Her voice is light, harmonious, almost too soft.

“It wasn’t a question. Go,” Yesira commands.

“But—”

“She’ll want to be disturbed for this. Trust me,” Yesira insists, her tone sharp and final.

Saatra rises, sets the papers aside, and hurries out, the steel door scraping shut behind her.

“Múr atnín,” I hiss. “Let me go.”

“That, I can’t do.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re planning to escape. Isn’t that true?”

“Obviously.”

“You’re honest. I like that.”

I twist against her grip. “Am I your prisoner?”

Her lips curve into a faint smile. “Not at all.”

“Then there’s no reason for me to stay, is there?”

Her red eyes bore into mine. “Here’s the truth. You can’t just leave after we’ve spent several mooncrescents treating you. You could slip back into a coma at any spark, as sure as I’m sitting here.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” I say, my tone sharp. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Her grip tightens painfully around my wrist as if trying to wring juice from an orange. “Do you feel no gratitude? After everything we’ve done for you?”

“What in Saxx have you done for me?” I twist my arm in her grasp. “You won’t even tell me!”

She looks at me again as if she can’t get enough of staring.

“Can you stop doing that?” I snap.

“Doing what?”

“Staring!”

She averts her gaze, her grip on my wrist loosening slightly. “If I’m honest, seeing you talking and alive after all this time feels strange. I didn’t think you’d be… like this.”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” My gaze flicks to her horns, small and sharp as thumbnails, nestled between her brows and hairline. They’re soot-black, the same shade as her skin, triangular and razor-like.

She shrugs casually. “I thought you’d be more… reserved. Like other sun elves I’ve encountered. It’s just that your appearance is so?—”

Careful, star elf. Watch your tongue. Choose your next words wisely.

“Delicate.”

“Delicate?” I growl.

“It’s true,” she continues, undeterred. “Your hair is soft, your skin untouched and pale. Your face… innocent. At least when you’re sleeping.”

“You thought I was a typical sun elf, didn’t you? Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not the sweet, timid little thing everyone expects me to be.” I yank at my wrist, trying to free myself. I don’t even like sun elves touching me, let alone someone like her.

She smiles, shakes her head, and finally releases her grip. “Quite the opposite, Iszaelda.”

“Oh, really?” I pull my hand back and hide it beneath the blanket. Don’t you dare touch me again. Don’t even think about it.

“I’m not disappointed. If anything, I’m impressed. You’re like us, and I like that.”

I open my mouth to fire back, but the words die on my tongue. The door swings open, and Saatra enters, followed by an impossibly tall star elf.

She dominates the doorway, her head dipping to pass beneath the arch.

Her skin is a smoky gray, her clothing taut against her broad, muscular arms. With a single, fluid motion, she closes the door behind her, a seamless gesture that seems almost unnatural.

Then she crosses the room in just a few purposeful strides.

My jaw drops. She’s beautiful but in a dangerous way. Strength radiates from her like a force of nature, undeniable, commanding. The way she moves leaves no doubt she’s a warrior. A skilled one. But she’s a woman. Do female star elves fight?

Then I remember: one of the soldiers I killed at Gann Gavannoa was a woman. Is it common here, I wonder? Do all women have the right to wield weapons, or is it a privilege granted only to a select few?

“First and Second Medics. Leave, please.”

Yesira squeezes my shoulder before standing and exiting the room, Saatra trailing close behind. The silence that settles is thick and suffocating.

The star elf drags a chair forward, the legs scraping against the floor, and sits down, leaning toward me. Her gaze is sharp and calculating, her narrow red eyes fixing on me, then darting around the room as if scanning for hidden dangers.

An angular, pointed symbol resembling a spire adorns her forehead.

I hold my breath.

What does she want? Who is she? How do you greet a star elf? What do you say? What’s polite, and what could get me into trouble?

“Meeli,” I whisper hesitantly. “Múera dúera amin?—”

“We don’t speak Elvish,” she says, cutting me off.

Her voice is lighter than expected, given her towering stature and weathered, scarred face.

A jagged mark carves its way across the bridge of her nose, stretching out toward her cheeks.

She’s fought before—many times. “I assume you have many questions.”

“That’s true.” My voice is steady, though my eyes drift to her horns. They’re larger than Yesira’s, about the size of index fingers, slightly curved and black as coal.

“But first, I believe an introduction is in order,” she says, extending her arm toward me, her hand reaching for the crook of my arm. “I’m Kathraanis Urn’aa of Moir’Ana, overseeing and leading the Academy. Now, please, extend your arm.”

“Why?”

“So we can greet properly.”

I grit my teeth as she grabs hold of me. Her grip tightens around the crook of my arm, and she pulls me toward her with startling speed. Her forehead presses against mine, firm, her horns grazing my skin.

“Grip my arm and state your name.”

“Iszaelda Vínnoel… of Parae.”

“Parae?”

I nod, wrenching myself free and pressing my back against the wall. A sharp breath escapes me as I steady myself.

“I see,” she says softly, almost to herself.

What does she mean by that? Her expression shifts, darkening into something that looks far too much like pity—pity I neither want nor need.

I narrow my eyes at her.

“You don’t know?” she asks.

“Know what?”

She rests her hands in her lap, glancing at the door before settling back on me. “You see, Valeanrae’s fallen. The last village of the original inhabitants is under siege. Talador is the only city that still stands.”

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” I retort.

Her lips curl into a faint smirk. “You assume we’re on Mesmigli’s side because we’re star elves.”

“Mesmigli?”

“We’re not. Appearances can be deceiving, and each of us has our own unique mind. Welcome to the Resistance, Iszaelda.”

“Mesmigli… who?”

“Akares Dorne. You’ve surely heard of him?”

I nod, a shiver running down my spine.

“Mesmigli is his name in Arzakean.” Her white hair, as soft and luminous as sea foam, spills over her shoulder, but she brushes it aside with a casual flick of her hand.

“You’re saying you’re not on Akares’ side?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I mutter.

“It’s surprising you haven’t heard of us.”

“Can I leave now?”

“We’ve become quite well-known.”

“Is that so? Enlighten me,” I reply with a sarcastic yawn, rolling my eyes. The bed groans beneath me, its frame creaking with every tiny movement as if my slightest shift is too much to bear.

“You see, we have bases in nearly every country, all under the leadership of Merediath Veth. She’s the one we want as Scourge, not the snake.”

I glance toward the door and the freedom it represents. It’s heavy and impersonal, nothing like the doors in Parae. “Would you care to explain why I’m here?”

“Of course, Iszaelda.” She glances around briefly. “Come, let’s get something to eat.”

“Eat?”

She nods.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You are. Come on.” Her long, sharp nails close around my elbow, and she pulls me firmly up from the bed. The frame lets out a screech like a wailing seal.

“Can’t you tell me everything now?” I hiss, feeling the burn where her touch lingers.

It’s a searing heat, then freezing cold.

Like the men’s hands so long ago when I was nine.

One of them was a star elf. A black elf.

The other, human. Both equally vile. They grabbed me.

Touched me. Treated me like a piece of meat.

Kathraanis snorts, her gaze scanning the room as her fingers run over the hilts of the daggers at her waist. She wears several, each one unique, one with a matte glass handle, another wrapped in leather. There’s no doubt. She’s a warrior.

“A true star elf never has a serious conversation without a meal.”

I allow her to pull me through a wide corridor.

The walls are sharp and precise, and the floor is cold beneath my feet.

Even here, the air feels stifled and sterile.

Everything is scrubbed clean, every surface meticulously wiped down.

Not a speck of dust or a trace of dirt is in sight. Utterly detached from nature.

“How long have I been asleep?” I ask as Kathraanis pulls me along.

“Asleep?” Her hair floats from side to side. All I can see is her back and the arm gripping me tightly. Star elves have strong hands. “You’ve been in a coma.”