Chapter Eight:What is kept that doesn't belong
Elara learned very quickly that Kaelreth's realm did not sleep.
It merely dimmed.
The sky above the citadel shifted endlessly, its colors bruised and bleeding into one another—deep violets, burning ambers, shades so dark they felt like absences rather than hues. Light existed without warmth. Darkness existed without rest. Everything watched.
She was brought through corridors carved from living stone, the walls faintly pulsing as if they possessed veins. Every step echoed too loudly, as though the realm wanted her to hear how small she was within it.
She was not bound.
That was worse.
The beings who escorted her did not touch her, did not need to. Their presence alone pressed against her spine, guiding her forward through sheer intimidation. Their eyes—too bright, too knowing—tracked every breath she took.
At the heart of the citadel lay a chamber unlike the others.
It opened outward rather than enclosing, a vast circular space ringed by elevated platforms. Figures stood there already, waiting. They were not guards.
They were family.
Power radiated from them in distinct, clashing signatures—each presence sharp and ancient, layered with authority that made Elara's vision swim. Some bore resemblance to Kaelreth: the same severe grace, the same terrible stillness. Others wore their power differently—fluid, volatile, restrained by centuries of discipline rather than instinct.
Kaelreth stood at the center.
Unmoving.
Unbowed.
Elara was brought to stand several paces behind him, small and exposed in the open space. The floor beneath her feet vibrated faintly, reacting to the collective attention now focused entirely on her.
A murmur rippled through the chamber.
"A human."
"Unmarked."
"Alive."
The words were not whispers. They were spoken deliberately, meant to reach her ears.
One figure stepped forward—tall, regal, their presence cutting like frost.
"This is an abomination," the figure said. "You brought a fracture into our realm."
Kaelreth did not turn. "I brought what was already touched."
"By dreams," another voice snapped. "Not by claim."
"That distinction no longer applies."
The first figure's gaze finally slid to Elara, sharp and dissecting. "She is fragile. You risk exposure. Instability."
"She will not leave," Kaelreth replied.
The finality in his tone caused several presences to bristle.
"You do not decide that alone," a woman said coolly, stepping forward from the shadows. Her eyes burned a deep, molten gold. "Our realm has endured because we do not allow sentiment to outweigh survival."
"This is not sentiment," Kaelreth said.
The woman laughed softly. "Then what is it?"
Silence followed.
Not uncertainty.
Restraint.
"She is mine," Kaelreth said at last.
The chamber reacted.
The stone beneath them thrummed violently. Light flared along the walls. Several figures recoiled instinctively, their expressions darkening.
Elara's knees nearly buckled under the sudden surge of power. Pain bloomed behind her eyes, sharp and disorienting. She gasped, clutching at her chest as the pressure bore down on her like a crushing weight.
No one moved to help her.
"She is not marked," the frost-eyed figure said sharply. "She does not belong to this realm."
"She will," Kaelreth answered.
That was when the cruelty began in earnest.
A wave of pressure rolled outward—not from Kaelreth, but toward him.
Elara was caught in it.
Her breath tore painfully from her lungs. She collapsed to her knees, palms slamming against the stone as nausea surged violently. The floor felt cold and alive beneath her skin, reacting to her distress with faint, predatory vibrations.
"Stop," someone said—calm, measured. "She cannot withstand this."
"She should not exist here," another replied. "This proves it."
Elara retched, bile burning her throat. Her vision blurred, the chamber warping at the edges as her body struggled to adapt to a realm actively rejecting her presence.
Kaelreth moved then.
The pressure ceased instantly.
The sudden absence made Elara sag forward, gasping, her body trembling uncontrollably. She did not dare lift her head.
"She is under my protection," Kaelreth said coldly. "Any further demonstration will be answered."
The threat was unmistakable.
The gold-eyed woman studied him carefully. "You endanger us all."
"I accept the cost."
The chamber fell silent again, heavier this time.
At last, the frost-eyed figure turned away. "If she fractures the boundary, her blood will be on your hands."
Kaelreth did not respond.
The council dispersed slowly, their gazes lingering on Elara with open contempt, curiosity, and something far worse—anticipation.
She was left kneeling on the cold stone.
Kaelreth did not help her rise.
She was taken to her quarters shortly after.
They were vast. Impossibly so. A chamber carved high into the citadel's inner structure, its walls etched with sigils that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the realm itself. There were no windows—only openings that revealed endless shifting skies.
It was not a prison.
That, too, was worse.
The first days blurred together.
Time did not move correctly. Hunger came too quickly, then faded strangely, replaced by weakness that sank into her bones. Food appeared without warning—placed just beyond easy reach, forcing her to move despite dizziness and pain. The water burned her throat some days and tasted metallic on others.
Voices whispered from the walls at night.
They spoke in no language she knew, yet the intent seeped through clearly enough—mockery, fascination, cruelty sharpened by boredom.
She learned not to scream.
She learned not to cry loudly.
Attention was dangerous.
On the fourth cycle—she guessed it was the fourth—the door opened without sound.
A woman entered.
Human.
Elara's breath hitched painfully.
The woman froze when she saw her, eyes widening in recognition that carried no joy—only understanding.
"You're new," the woman said quietly.
Elara nodded weakly.
The woman crossed the chamber carefully, her movements practiced, cautious. She knelt beside Elara and offered a cup of water that did not burn.
"My name is Seris," she said. "I'm assigned to you."
"Assigned?" Elara whispered.
Seris's mouth tightened. "They don't trust their own kind to tend to you."
That should have comforted her.
It didn't.
"How long have you been here?" Elara asked.
Seris hesitated. "Long enough to know how this ends if you don't learn quickly."
Fear curled low and sharp in Elara's chest.
"They won't kill you," Seris continued. "That would be merciful."
The words settled like a blade.
"Why help me?" Elara asked.
Seris met her gaze steadily. "Because someone helped me once."
Hope and despair tangled painfully.
That night, Elara lay awake on the stone bed, staring at a sky that never darkened enough to rest.
Her mother's face haunted her thoughts—her voice, her hands, the way she had wept and begged as Kaelreth tore her away.
Those pleas had meant nothing here.
In this realm, Elara was not a daughter.
Not a person.
She was a risk.
A possession.
A thing that should not breathe here.
And as the citadel pulsed softly around her, alive and watching, Elara understood the truth she had been avoiding since the moment she was taken:
Kaelreth had claimed her.
But he had not saved her.