7. Elara
7
ELARA
T he cell walls have blurred into sameness. Black stone, dripping water. The thud of iron shod boots when guards pass by and the occasional plate of food and water shoved through the door. You’d think fear would be sharp here, ever-present like the cold. Instead, it dulls. It recedes into the background until boredom and hopelessness take their place. I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks and discolorations like they’re constellations.
The first days, I flinched at every sound. Heart racing, breath held, always expecting the worst. But now? Now it’s routine. Fear can only consume you for so long before it burns out, leaving only ash.
My muscles ache from lying on the cold stone. The thin blanket tangled around my legs offers no comfort. I wonder about what’s happening outside the cells. If I’d had to hazard a guess things aren’t going well for the Shaman. What about the other girls? Did they escape? Are they in cells too? Are they close?
I hadn’t thought about someone else being close by. Too caught up in my own head. Rolling onto my side I force aching muscles to move and get to my feet. I clasp the cold iron bars of the small window and tug myself up.
“Hello? Is there anyone?” I call out.
The only response is the constant, numbing drip of water. I don’t know its source but I wish with all I am that someone would stop it. I try calling out again. Just in case. In case of what I don’t really know, but it costs me nothing.
The muscles in my arms tremble and I drop, landing softly on the balls of my feet, but still pain shoots up my calf, emanating from my broken ankle. I’ve been here long enough that my ankle is better, but not one hundred percent. Limping I cross the tiny cell, put my back to the wall and slide down. I grab the thin blanket and pull it over myself.
I wonder if I’ll die down here. Forgotten. Unremarkable. The Shaman threatened with some purpose but what does that mean? I don’t know how much time has passed. There is nothing to measure it by except the sputtering torch outside the cell door and I have no idea how long one of those lasts. I do know the guards changed it once, but what does that mean? Hours? Days? Weeks?
It can’t have been weeks. I don’t think. I hope? I don’t know. My body is numb and so is my mind. I try to keep focused. Remain sharp but this unending monotony with nothing to break it is killing me. Is this the first step of torture?
My measurement of time passing is when they bring food, but I don’t know how many meals a day they bring. One? Three? Five? It’s all under their control and they could be messing with me. Changing it up so that I remain confused.
And where is Z’leni? I haven’t seen him. The guards who’ve brought my food have been different every time, but though each one is different, they might as well be the same. Every one of them has been cold, distant, looking as if they’re so caved in that they might as well be a zombie.
I close my eyes and replay the memory of when I last saw him. His eyes. Searching. Soulful. Rich and deep and sharply intelligent. The conflict that played over his face. The depth of his voice that rumbled in my chest.
Needing something, anything, to both pass the time and give myself some relief I slide one hand into my pants. No one is around. There’s no performance, no pretense. I slide my hand over my pubic hair and cup my mound, pressing down and rubbing.
His lips — what would he taste like? His tusks — what would they feel like? Scraping over my skin as his lips move against mine.
I rub harder, coiling the spring in my core. I bite my lower lip, clenching my eyes as the release builds.
The warmth of his breath on my skin. The feel of his tusks, in my mind they’re rough and tug against my skin as they slide up my thighs.
Faster. Pressing harder. I moan, softly. Almost there. I grab my left tit with my free hand and squeeze.
“Ahhh—”
A scuffle and a thud jerk me out of imagination and slam me back into the harsh reality of my cell. I jerk my hand out of my pants and am on my feet in an instant. Embarrassment and anger war for dominance.
An Urr’ki voice barks, sharp with command but it’s followed by a loud smack. Someone struck someone. A loud oof sound echoes off the stone walls.
“Kill you!” another voice yells.
I rush over to the door, pulling myself up and pressing my face against the cold bars. I try to see what is happening but the action is outside my view. I shift my head, straining to see, desperate to understand..
Is this a rescue? Or is this my doom?
The fighting continues unseen. Shouts, both of pain and excitement. Flesh striking flesh, a sound I’ve become all too familiar with since the crash onto Tajss. My arms tremble. I can’t keep myself up like this. I don’t have the strength.
The muscles give out and I drop. Damn it.
“What’s happening?” I shout in frustration.
No one answers, of course. The fighting continues but now it’s closer. I shake my arms, trying to convince the muscles to be stronger. It sounds like the fighting is right outside the door. Knowing my arms aren’t ready to try again I jump up. I see him.
A Zmaj stands there.
Chains bite into his wrists, dark scales flecked with dirt and blood. His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths, but his eyes burn with stubborn resolve refusing to extinguish. They’re locked on something beyond my what I can see. Recognition flickers in my mind. I’ve seen him before. He’s one of ours. That’s the way we think of the surface Zmaj — the ones who saved humanity.
I don’t know him, but I have seen him often. Glimpses at gatherings or patrols. I don’t know his name even, but my heart soars seeing him. Then he looks over and his eyes lock onto mine and I feel something more than hope.
Something primal hums beneath my skin sending my pulse racing. The way he looks at me, the burning in his eyes, drives right into my unsatisfied pussy. The pulsing need and engorgement that was interrupted pulls on my attention.
I jump again, desperate to see him, grabbing onto the bars despite the protests of exhausted muscles.
He hisses, wings snapping open, his bound arms lifting as he looks down the hall. His tail rises between his wings and curls over his head. He roars as he rushes out of sight.
Grunts, groans, and battle cries echo from the stone walls. My heart gallops, lodged in my throat. A tremor races through my muscles as I strain to keep myself up where I can see.
A moment later he stumbles back into view. His head snaps back as a blur connects under his chin. Blood splatters, some of it landing on my fingers gripping the bars. It’s a cool spray, adding to the chill. I cry out, hurting with him.
A smile spreads over his face as he shakes his head, flinging more droplets. His eyes meet mine once more for the briefest of instances but on some level it feels like much longer. Two Urr’ki guards rush into view, one of them barreling right into the Zmaj. He slams his bound fists onto the Urr’ki’s back repeatedly with blows so hard they echo. They move out of my view and I can only guess at what the sounds mean.
Two more guards rush past my cell. Four. Four hulking Urr’ki against one Zmaj already bound. He can’t stand against them. No one could. The odds are impossible yet the fight continues.
I can’t keep myself up any longer. Dropping I press an ear to the door. Muscles trembling and my breath too. I whisper a prayer for him to be okay. For him to win. Somehow. Impossible though I know it is.
Why is he here? How?
It keeps going. I stand on my tiptoes and can just see out the opening. He stumbles back into view and the moment he does his head snaps to my cell. His gaze catches mine, and for a moment, the world narrows. There’s no cold cell. No guards. Just those eyes and the unspoken tether stretching taut between us.
His lips part, as if to speak, but then one of the guards shoves him hard into the far wall and the spell breaks.
“What is he doing here?” I whisper to myself, breath shallow.
Unless there was a full on attack there is no way a Zmaj should be able to breach the Urr’ki city and if there was… it obviously didn’t go well. The sounds of fighting echo off the stone walls.
The Zmaj stumbles back into view. Blood drips from his nose and mouth. I swallow hard, tears filling my eyes. The guards shout in their guttural tongue, debating what to do with him.
The warrior’s shoulders tense. His tail lashes once. Then, within a terrifying display of strength his muscles bunch and he rips the chains apart. The metal snaps like brittle twigs.
Chaos erupts.
He lunges at the nearest guard, claws raking across green flesh. Blood spatters the stone floor. A second guard charges, but the Zmaj pivots, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him into the wall. I press against the bars, adrenaline surging.
More guards shout, rushing to join the fray.
The warrior’s eyes flick back to me for a heartbeat, and I swear he softens, just slightly, before turning to face the incoming soldiers.
The fight is brutal.
His fists and claws are weapons, swift and precise, but the numbers work against him. For every Urr’ki he downs, two more replace them. Clubs slam against his body. The clatter of armored boots reverberates through the stone.
My stomach knots as I watch him fight like a cornered beast. Desperate. Furious. But even fury has limits.
A guard manages to flank him, slamming the hilt of a spear into the base of his skull. He staggers. Another tackles him from behind, chains looping around his throat. They wrestle him to the ground, claws scraping at stone as they force him down.
“No,” I murmur, fists clenched around the bars. “Get up.”
He tries.
Even chained and bloodied, he snarls and thrashes, but they overpower him. Heavy cuffs snap back around his wrists, pinning his arms behind him.
Panting, the guards drag him to the empty cell across from mine. The door groans as it shuts, locking him inside.
For a moment, only ragged breathing fills the corridor.
Then his head appears in the barred window of his door and those eyes find me again.
His scales shimmer faintly in the dim light, darkened by bruises and dirt, but still radiant. The curve of his horns frames a face carved from defiance. I swallow hard. My voice barely works when I whisper.
“Why did you come here?”
He holds my gaze, unwavering.
“For you.”
My heart lurches.
I grip the bars tighter, mind racing, but words elude me. There’s so much I want to ask. How, why, who sent him, but all I can do is stare.
“For me?” I echo dumbly.
He nods once, slow and deliberate, even as exhaustion tugs at him. My throat tightens. That strange pull between us, that tether. I feel it again. Stronger now. I inch closer to the dividing wall, fingers brushing against the cold stone.
“What’s your name?”
He exhales, voice low but steady. “Ryatuv.”
Ryatuv.
The name settles in my chest — solid, right, like a missing piece slipping into place.
“I’m Elara,” I say.
His lips twitch at the corners, like he already knew. We sit in silence, broken only by the echoing stomps of the guards retreating boots.
For the first time in forever, I don’t feel alone.