5. Elara
5
ELARA
I huddle in the farthest corner of the cell, arms clamped tight around my knees, as if I could hold myself together by sheer force. The air hangs damp and heavy, saturated with the bitter scent of metal and stone. The only sounds are the slow drip of unseen water and the sudden, jarring creaks of shifting stone — each one a predator in hiding.
Time passes. There is no way to know how much. I slip in and out of a restless, fractured half-sleep. I’ve never been so scared in all my life, but below the fear lies the burning embers of anger. It’s buried deep, but I cling to it. Holding on to not lose who I am. I know, on some primal level, that if I lose the anger I’ll descend into a madness brought on by terror.
The torch guttering outside the cell sputters and smokes, its weak glow bleeding away inch by inch. My heart beats faster thinking about losing even that small bit of light. Hunger knots my stomach. Thirst claws at my throat. The throbbing in my ankle dulls to a heavy, dead ache, a wound forgotten by everything but my body. It only hurts badly when I move it. I stare at the glistening black walls, desperation clawing at my thoughts. I have to get out of here. It feels like the room is closing in.
When I hear footsteps echoing down the corridor my heart jumps. Sweat beads across my skin. The cool air causes me to shiver. The steps are not hurried, but come with a steady stride. My muscles tense as I force myself to sit up straighter, wiping the vulnerability from my face like smudged makeup.
Without warning, the door sighs open. Flickering torchlight spills across the floor and standing at the threshold is him. Z’leni. The Urr’ki warrior who, once, showed me a sliver of kindness. He steps inside and I see him with eyes clearer than I have before. He’s tall, his lean frame coiled with the kind of strength that doesn’t need showing off. His green skin glistens under the dying torchlight, carved in sharp relief against the shadows. His dark eyes flick to me, sharp and unreadable, cutting through the stale air like a blade.
He crouches without a word, placing a tray on the ground. Water. A chunk of... something that barely looks like food. He turns to leave, and the silence needles me.
“You didn’t have to throw me in here like some animal,” I snap, the words tumbling out before fear can silence them.
He freezes, then slowly turns back around, towering over me. His jaw flexes and his hands tighten into fists. For a second, I think he might hurt me, but then his gaze pins me in place.
“You are not an animal,” he says, his voice low, scraping raw against the silence. “Animals are free.”
His words land with the force of a slap — not cruel, but so devastatingly honest it strips me bare. And somehow that feel’s worse.
“You’re surprisingly poetic for someone keeping me locked up,” I fire back, chin lifting.
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or amusement, I can’t tell. He gives nothing away.
“Eat,” he orders. “You’ll need your strength.”
I push to my feet, not caring that I’m unsteady or how my ankle protests. I refuse to sit here like some helpless thing.
“Why? So I’m healthy enough for whatever horror show the Shaman’s cooking up?”
His mouth tightens. The tension thickens between us, heavy as a thundercloud ready to split open. He steps closer, and even though my pulse is hammering, I don’t back down.
“You’ll find others less tolerant than me,” he murmurs.
I search his face, trying to find the crack beneath the armor. There’s something there. Something unspoken. My chest tightens as I realize I’m breathing too fast.
“Is that a threat?” I ask, voice quieter, but sharp.
He tilts his head, watching me like I’m a puzzle.
“No,” he answers. “It is... advice.”
The air between us hums. Neither one of us moves. His scent is sharp, metallic, and something else. It fills the space. I catch myself staring at the intricate markings on his chest plate, the faint scars crossing it. Not just a soldier, but a survivor. His gaze drops briefly to my clenched fists before returning to my eyes.
“You fight. Even when it will not help.” His voice softens. “I do not understand you.”
“You don’t have to,” I whisper.
His jaw works, like he wants to say more. Instead, he steps back, lingering at the threshold. His eyes linger too, heavy and searching.
“I want to,” he says, low and hoarse, like a secret he never meant to share.
Our eyes are locked onto each other as tension soars. I don’t know if I want to slap him or grab his head and jerk him into a kiss. Both options are equally appealing and being stuck between them leaves me trapped in uncertainty.
I can’t read his face, but his eyes…
“Why?” I ask, breaking the heavy silence.
The corners of his mouth twitch then drop, turning down into a frown. He narrows his eyes then he squares his shoulders and turns, walking out the door without a word. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with nothing but the echo of his voice in my head.
I want to.
The words rattle inside me, louder than the closing of the door, louder than the silence pressing in from the walls. My chest is tight, but it’s not just fear anymore. It’s confusion, heat, and something that feels like shame.
Why does part of me wish he’d stayed? Why do I feel disappointed when I should be relieved?
I sag back against the wall, dragging a trembling hand through my hair. Hunger gnaws at me, but I can’t bring myself to touch the food. Not yet. Not after that.
I replay every second. The way he stood there, unreadable but not entirely cold. The flicker of something in his eyes, that quiet, almost reluctant admission. I want to.
What does he want? To understand me? To help? Or is it darker, more twisted? I can’t trust him. I won’t. But even now, my mind won’t stop cataloging every aspect of him, the sharp lines of his face, the subtle way his voice softened at the end. The way he watched me like I was... more than a prisoner.
God, what’s wrong with me that part of me wishes he hadn’t left?
I slam my fists against the stone floor. Pain shoots up my arms, but it anchors me, reminds me of who I am. I’m not some weak little bird waiting for scraps of kindness from my captor. But still, when I close my eyes, I feel him there in the doorway, lingering.
I curl tighter into myself, knees hugged to my chest. The anger is still there, flickering low and steady, but something else has joined it. Something confusing and dangerous.
I hate him. But I also don’t. And that terrifies me more than the cell.