Chapter 4 Leora
LEORA
The lock clicks shut with a sound like a breaking bone.
I stand in the room, my chest heaving, the air sawing in and through my lungs.
I wait for the sound of retreating footsteps, but for a long moment, there is only silence on the other side of the heavy wood.
I can feel him standing there. The air feels pressurized, thin and static-charged, as if a storm is pressing against the doorframe.
My skin crawls. The memory of his hand on my throat is a phantom weight, cold and possessive. But he didn't kill me.
My magic is gone.
The words echo in my mind. He looked at me not with the hunger of a predator, but with the dawning horror of a man realizing he is bleeding out.
The pressure beyond the door finally recedes. Heavy boots strike the stone floor, moving away.
I exhale, my knees giving way. I sink to the plush carpet, wrapping my arms around my ribs. This is not a dungeon.
I look around, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the tall, narrow window.
The room is opulent in a way that feels suffocating.
The walls are hung with tapestries of dark grey and silver depicting jagged mountains and storms. A massive four-poster bed dominates the space, draped in velvet the color of midnight.
There is a hearth, cold and empty, and a vanity carved from black wood that looks like petrified bone.
It is a room for a guest. Or a prize.
I scramble to the window. It is a single pane of glass, impossibly clear.
I press my hands against it. Cold seeps through to my palms. Below, the estate of House Imas sprawls like a sleeping beast in the gloom of Lliandor.
Rain slashes against the glass, distorting the view of the high walls and the jagged iron spikes that line the perimeter.
I push against the frame. It does not budge. I trace the edge of the sill and feel a faint, vibrating hum—a magical seal.
I am trapped. Not in chains, but in silk and sorcery.
Why?
Dark Elves do not keep human slaves in rooms like this. We are kept in barracks, in pens, in the mud. We are livestock. To put livestock in the master's quarters implies a purpose far more terrifying than labor.
A sharp cramp twists my stomach. I haven't eaten since the gruel at the market two days ago. My body is failing, even if my mind is racing. I curl my fingers into the loose thread of my tunic, pulling it tight until the pain centers me.
Think, Leora. Observe.
He recoiled when I felt for him. When I... pitied him.
I close my eyes, trying to recall the sensation. It hadn't been a conscious choice. It was a reflex, like throwing up a hand to ward off a blow. The dam inside my mind—the wall I built to keep the screaming emotions of the world out—had fractured. And instead of taking in, I had poured out.
And it hurt him.
A click at the door makes me scramble backward, pressing my spine against the cold stone of the hearth.
The door opens. It is not the Lord.
An older human woman enters. She carries a silver tray, her head bowed so low her chin nearly touches her chest. She wears the gray wool of a house slave, her hair strictly bound in a white cloth.
She moves with the shuffling, silent gait of someone who learned long ago that invisibility is the only shield that works.
She places the tray on a small table. Bread, cheese, a pitcher of water. The scent of the food hits me, and my mouth waters so painfully my jaw aches.
"Eat," the woman whispers. She does not look up.
I remain by the hearth. "Is it poisoned?"
The woman flinches. She looks at me then, and I see a landscape of tragedy written in the lines of her face. Her eyes are watery and dull, the spark long since extinguished. "If Lord Imas wanted you dead, child, he would not waste the arsenic. He would simply stop your heart."
"He couldn't," I say. The words are out before I can stop them.
The woman freezes. Her gaze darts to the open door, then back to me. "Do not speak such things. The shadows in this house have ears. The Serpent hears all."
She moves to leave, but I lunge forward, grabbing her wrist. Her skin is papery and dry. "Please. Who are you?"
"I am Rina," she says, her voice trembling. "I have served this House for forty years. I served his father before him."
"Where am I? Why am I in this room?"
Rina looks at the velvet bed, then at me. A flicker of pity crosses her face—not the magical kind I project, but the weary, human kind. "You are where he puts things he wishes to study. Things he wishes to break slowly."
"He tried to break me," I say, my voice dropping. "In the study. He tried to scare me."
"He will try again. And again." Rina pulls her wrist free, though I wasn't holding her tightly. She wrings her hands together. "He is Khuzuth. He does not know how to lose. If you fought him... if you defied him... he will not stop until you are dust."
"I saw him," I insist, needing to understand what happened in that room. "When he tried to use his magic... something happened. He looked afraid."
Rina steps closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "Lord Imas does not feel fear. He consumes it. He is a devotee of The Serpent. Do you know what that means, girl? It means pain is his prayer. Do not mistake a pause for weakness. He is merely deciding which knife to use."
She backs away toward the door. "Eat the bread. Gather your strength. You will need it when the night comes. Lliandor is cruelest in the dark."
She slips out, the heavy door locking behind her with a finality that echoes in the marrow of my bones.
I am alone.
I eat the bread. It is rich, seeded with herbs I don't recognize, and I devour it with shaking hands. The water is cool and clean. As my belly fills, the adrenaline crash hits me. My limbs feel heavy, turning to lead.
I crawl onto the massive bed. The velvet is soft against my cheek, smelling of lavender and that underlying, metallic scent that seems to permeate the entire estate.
I close my eyes, trying to find the quiet place in my mind. The fortress.
Build the wall. Lay the stones. Mortar them with silence.
But the wall is cracked.
I can feel it—a jagged fissure running through the center of my mind. And through that fissure, the world is leaking in.
It starts as a low thrumming, like a headache building behind the eyes. But it isn't pain. It is... agitation.
Pace. Turn. Pace. Turn.
The rhythm beats against my skull. It feels frantic, a caged animal throwing itself against the bars. My breath hitches. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to block it out.
Why is it silent? Why doesn't He answer?
The thought isn't mine. It is sharp, cold, and terrified. It tastes of ink and old blood.
Imas.
I sit up, gasping. I am sensing him. He must be nearby—perhaps in the room next door, or the study below. The proximity is amplifying the connection I forged when I touched him. The dam is broken, and his emotions are flooding into me.
It is suffocating. His anxiety is akin to a chain on my chest. His frustration feels like insects skittering under my skin.
Stop it, I think, projecting the thought toward the source of the noise. Be quiet.
I squeeze my hands into fists, my nails digging into my palms. I focus on the sensation of the velvet under my legs, the sound of the rain. I try to push back against the intrusion. I try to be calm.
I breathe in. I am safe. I am alone.
I breathe out. Silence.
I imagine the calm as a color—a soft, pale gray, like the morning mist. I wrap it around myself. I push it outward, toward the jagged, frantic presence scratching at my mind.
The effect is instant.
The thrumming in my head slows. The frantic pacing sensation stutters and halts. The sharp, metallic taste of his anxiety dulls, replaced by a sudden, stunned stillness.
My headache fades to a dull ache.
I blink, staring at the far wall. I did that. I reached out, across the distance, and I... soothed him.
A shiver works its way up my spine. This is dangerous. If I can feel him, he can feel me. And if I can soothe him...
He drinks the scream that dies in the throat.
I am feeding him. Not with fear, but with peace.
I scramble off the bed, backing away as if the mattress has burned me. I need to stop. I need to rebuild the wall. If I give him peace, he will only want more. He will drain me dry until I am nothing but a husk.
The lock clicks.
I spin around. The door swings open.
It is not Rina this time.
The warrior woman, the Captain, fills the doorway. Asema. She is not wearing her helmet now, revealing a face that looks as if it was carved from granite, scarred and hard. Her eyes are dark, assessing. She looks at me not as a person, but as a problem she cannot yet solve.
She does not enter the room. She stands on the threshold, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.
"Come," she says. Her voice is deep, lacking the cruel modulation of her master’s. It is just a command.
"Where?" I ask, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "Rina said... she said I should eat."
"You have eaten," Asema says, her gaze flickering to the empty tray. "Lord Imas requires you."
"Why?"
Asema steps aside, gesturing into the dark hallway. "He wishes to test the connection."
The words hang in the air, cold and clinical. Test the connection.
I look at her hands. They are steady. She is not angry. She is not cruel. She is simply a tool of his will.
I have no choice. I am in the center of a fortress, surrounded by monsters.
I step forward, my legs feeling like water. As I pass Asema, she falls into step behind me, a silent, armored shadow.
"Do not fight him," she says, her voice so low it is almost lost under the sound of the rain drumming on the roof. "He is... unstable tonight."
I look back at her, surprised by the warning. She does not meet my eyes. She stares straight ahead, her face a mask of duty.
We walk down the corridor, toward the heavy oak doors of the study. Even from here, I can feel him. The static in the air is thicker, buzzing against my skin.
He is waiting. And he is hungry.