Chapter 9 Elza
ELZA
The air in the lower cells is cold enough to see my breath.
It is a damp, heavy cold that clings to the skin and smells of wet stone and old iron.
The only sound is the rhythmic drip… drip…
drip of water seeping through the rock and the soft scuff of my boots on the flagstones.
Each step is a deliberate, measured beat, a queen’s procession to the gallows.
My gallows, or his. I have not yet decided.
My hand is wrapped around the hilt of my dagger, my thumb rubbing the worn grooves in the leather. The cool, solid weight of it is the only anchor in a world that has begun to tilt on its axis.
Tarek stands guard before the final cell, his hand resting on his own sword, his expression grim. This cell is the deepest, carved from the very heart of the mountain, its iron door reinforced with the same kind of dampening magic the Aethel once used. The bitter irony is not lost on me.
Tarek meets my eyes and gives a single, solemn nod. I nod back, and he hauls the heavy door open. I step inside, and the door groans shut behind me, the bolt scraping home with a sound of finality.
And there he is.
He is shackled to the far wall, his arms stretched wide, the glowing green cuffs of the dampeners casting an eerie light on his bone-pale skin.
They have stripped him of his leathers, leaving him in simple woolen trousers.
He is not bowed. He is not weakened. He stands with an infuriating, perfect stillness, his head raised, his abyss-black eyes fixed on me as I approach.
He looks less like a prisoner and more like a god waiting patiently for his worshippers to cease their theatrics.
The moment the door closed, the mental link between us, a dull hum at a distance, ignited into a roaring inferno.
It is a physical presence in the cell, a storm of energy that presses in on me, making it hard to breathe.
I can feel the brush of his consciousness against my own—not his thoughts, but the shape of them: cold, analytical, and utterly calm.
It is like standing next to a glacier and feeling the immense, crushing cold that radiates from it.
I stop ten feet from him, just beyond the reach of a lunge, should he somehow break free. I force my voice to be as cold as the air around us.
“Why are you here?”
His voice, when it comes, is a low, formal monotone that scrapes against my raw nerves. It is the same voice from my nightmares. “My purpose is to retrieve what was stolen.”
The words are nonsensical. “I have stolen nothing from you.”
“You are mistaken.” His gaze is unwavering. “You possess a specimen that is Vrakken property. I am here to collect it.”
Ice floods my veins. Specimen. The word is an obscenity, a clinical, sterile term that makes my blood run cold. He is talking about my son. He is talking about Lyren.
“He is not a specimen,” I hiss, my grip on my dagger tightening until my knuckles are white. “He is my child.”
“A biological anomaly,” he continues, as if I had not spoken. “One that requires further study. Its unique properties are of great interest to my people.”
Beneath the chilling calm of his words, I feel something else through the psychic torrent.
A flicker of something that is not apathy.
A low, possessive thrum that is focused entirely on Lyren, and by extension, on me.
It is the focused intensity of a scientist for his experiment, a collector for his prize.
It unnerves me more than any threat of physical violence.
“Are there others?” I force the question out, my voice tight. “Are more of… your kind… coming?”
“That is not a relevant concern for you.” He shifts his weight, the movement so slight it is barely perceptible, but the chains groan in protest. “Your focus should be on the deficiencies of your own position. This fortress, for example. It is a testament to your will, but it is deeply flawed.”
My breath catches. He is not answering my questions. He is attacking.
“The mortar in your southern wall is of poor quality,” he says, voice a detached, academic lecture.
“A single, determined sapper could bring it down in under an hour. The placement of your archers on the western battlement creates a significant blind spot. And your water supply, a single underground cistern, is dangerously vulnerable to poison.”
Every word is a hammer blow, striking at the foundations of the safety I have bled to build. He has been here less than a day, and he has already dissected my home, my sanctuary, my life’s work, with the cold, brutal precision of a butcher.
I feel the echo of his assessment through the link—he is not guessing. He is stating facts. He is showing me that even chained, he is more dangerous than an army. He is showing me that I am still the slave, and he is still the master.
“My people will die to protect this place,” I say, my voice trembling with a rage I cannot contain. “They will die to protect my son.”
“They will.” The agreement is absolute, devoid of emotion. “Their loyalty is a touching, but ultimately futile, variable in this calculation. They will die, and I will still take the specimen. The outcome is inevitable. Your defiance only alters the number of casualties.”
I stare at him, at this beautiful, terrible monster, and the composure I have fought so hard to maintain begins to fracture. The queen is fading, and the terrified girl from the cell is clawing her way to the surface. I cannot let him see it. I cannot let him see her.
I turn on my heel, my cloak swirling around me. “You will get nothing from me.”
I stride to the door, pounding on the iron with my fist. “Tarek!”
As the bolt scrapes back, I take one last look at him. He has not moved. His starless eyes follow me, and in their depths, I see a brief flicker of something that might be… interest. The detached curiosity of a predator that has just discovered its prey is more complex than it first appeared.
The door swings open, and I step out into the corridor, into the relative safety of the torchlight, leaving him chained in the suffocating darkness. I walk past Tarek without a word, my back straight, my head held high, every inch the queen.
I maintain the facade all the way up the winding stairs, through the guarded corridors, and into the solitude of my own chambers. The moment my door is barred, the strength that has held me together dissolves.
The air escapes my lungs in a ragged, tearing gasp.
My knees buckle, and I press myself back against the solid wood of the door, sliding down to the floor.
The dagger, my shield and my armor, slips from my nerveless fingers and clatters on the stone.
My hand is trembling, a violent, uncontrollable shudder that seems to shake my entire body.
I stare at it, at the weakness it betrays, and I hate him for it.
I hate him for making me feel this powerless again.