Ezra sat on the edge of a carved stone bed, her hands free, the door to her chamber unlocked. It wasn't a prison cell — not in the traditional sense — but the latticework windows were too narrow for escape, and the guards outside moved like wraiths in lacquered black.
The air smelled faintly of cedar oil and dried petals. A tray of spiced bread and wine rested on the low table. She hadn't been chained since her arrival two weeks ago.
The Dark Elf King's attendants spoke little to her, but their movements carried the crisp precision of ritual service. It was care, not cruelty. And that unsettled her far more than a whip or shackle would have.
Why was she being kept like this?
When the King visited — seldom, but always alone — he would stand at the threshold, silver eyes measuring her, speaking only in questions. "Do you dream here?" … "What colors do you miss?" … "When you think of home, what sound comes first?"
She never answered truthfully. But she felt the weight of each question lingering long after he was gone, like a hand pressed against her back, guiding her toward something unseen.
Far to the east, in the green heart of Aeloria, Queen Elenwë stood before the vine curtain. Her hair was pale as birch bark, braided with strands of silver thread. A mantle of woven emerald leaves draped her shoulders, and though her crown was nothing more than twisted rivergold wire, her presence made the masked guards straighten like drawn arrows.
Beyond the curtain stood a hut — not a grand hall, not a jeweled throne room, but a round thatched dwelling crowned with the sweeping horns of some long-dead beast. Golden-eyed masks peered from its walls like silent sentinels.
Inside, maps of the borderlands lay unrolled across a low table, stones marking patrol paths and suspected rebel routes.
Her voice was steady, but her fingers tapped against the map with restrained urgency.
"My daughter is still alive," she told her war-mistress. "The rebels want her for leverage, but they underestimate the blood of the Veyrn line. We will break their walls before they break her spirit."
She still did not know the truth — that her most trusted captain, Vaeryn, was the very man who had captured Liora.
In the iron-shadowed depths of Vaeryn's Legion base, Princess Liora Veyrn sat on the cold floor of her cell. Her ankles were chained to the wall, her dress frayed from weeks of damp and dirt.
The cell was small enough that she could touch both walls if she stretched her arms. A single torch burned outside the bars, its light barely reaching her face.
She'd stopped counting the days after the first week — time here was measured in the scrape of boots down the corridor, in the slow drip of water from the ceiling.
Vaeryn visited only to remind her of her isolation, his words always tinged with mockery. But she kept her gaze steady, never letting him see the cracks.
And far from all these places, in the deep forest…
Moonlight slanted through high branches.
A bird's silhouette trembled on the bark — feathers ruffled, head bent, a soft, broken cry slipping into the night.
Behind her, the shadow of a man stood perfectly still. No wind stirred his cloak.
The bird's call faltered, then stopped.
The shadow did not move.