Trapped With My Dark Elf

1. Aeryn

AERYN

Ikeep my head lowered, not out of submission but because it makes it easier to disappear, and in a place like this, disappearing is the closest thing to survival that still resembles living, especially when every movement is watched, measured, and punished if it strays even slightly from what is expected of me, my hands raw from labor that never seems to end, my breath shallow in the damp air that clings to my lungs as though it resents being shared.

The stone beneath my knees is uneven, biting through the thin fabric that no longer protects my skin, and I focus on that, on the sharp, grounding discomfort, because it anchors me to the present, because it keeps me here instead of there, instead of slipping into the fractures that wait just beneath the surface of my thoughts, always watching, always waiting for the moment my control weakens enough for them to break through.

I do not let them. I cannot.

The others around me work in silence, their movements mechanical, dulled by exhaustion and fear, and I have learned to mirror that emptiness, to become something indistinguishable from them, something unremarkable, something that won’t draw attention, because attention is dangerous, and I have seen what happens to those who attract it.

I have seen it too many times.

The memory presses at my mind, not a memory at all but something else, something sharper, something that is not part of the past, and I force it down, tightening every part of myself as though I can physically contain it, as though I can cage what I see the same way they cage us.

It fights me. It always does. A flicker, just a flicker, of silver blades in motion, of dark figures moving with purpose through corridors I know too well, of blood that has not yet been spilled but will be, and the pressure behind my eyes spikes so suddenly that I nearly falter, my fingers curling into the stone to keep myself steady.

No.

I swallow hard, forcing my breathing into something controlled, something steady, counting each inhale and exhale as though rhythm alone can hold the vision back, as though discipline is enough to defy what I am.

It has to be. Because if it isn’t, I am already dead.

I lower my gaze further, letting strands of my pale hair fall forward to obscure my face, because my eyes betray me when the visions come, because they shift, because they reveal too much, and I have survived this long by ensuring no one looks closely enough to notice.

The overseer’s footsteps echo somewhere behind me, each one carrying the promise of pain, and I adjust my movements accordingly, making them smaller, weaker, less noticeable, another body in a line of bodies that blur together under his watch.

Time stretches, though I do not measure it in hours or moments, only in the distance between one breath and the next, in the fragile space where nothing happens, where I remain only myself.

It almost holds. Then something tears through me without warning.

There is no build, no gradual fracture, only the sudden, violent intrusion of something that doesn't belong to now, slamming into my mind with such force that the world around me shatters into fragments of light and sound and sensation that no longer align.

Dark figures move through the outer gate, their armor absorbing what little light reaches them, their presence wrong in a way that settles deep into my bones, something older, something sharper, something that is not part of ones who normally control this place.

Their weapons are drawn. Their intent is clear. They are coming here.

The vision shifts before I can stabilize it, splintering into overlapping possibilities that blur at the edges, and I see myself rising too quickly, drawing attention, I see myself staying and being found, I see myself running and…

Pain.

It slices through me with brutal precision, dragging me back into my body so violently that I nearly collapse outright, my vision swimming as the present reasserts itself around me in jagged, disjointed pieces.

I suck in air that feels too thin, too sharp, my hands trembling despite my effort to still them. I cannot tell which version of events I am standing in, which path has already begun to unfold.

But I know one thing. They are coming. And if I stay here, I will not survive what follows.

The decision forms without hesitation, instinct overriding caution, and I push myself to my feet with more force than I should risk, already aware of the attention it will draw, already calculating the cost even as I accept it.

Movement around me stutters. Someone notices.

Of course they do. I turn anyway. The corridor stretches ahead, dimly lit, familiar enough that I can navigate it without thought, and I move before doubt can take hold, before fear can anchor me in place the way it always tries to, my steps are quick, never breaking into a full run, because running invites pursuit, because panic is as dangerous as stillness.

I keep my head down. I keep moving. The pressure builds again, sharper this time, more insistent, and I know what it means even before it hits, even before the world fractures once more into something I cannot fully control.

Another vision, but I try to stop it. I fail.

The corridor shifts around me, bending into something unfamiliar, something wrong, and I see myself reaching the outer passage only to find it blocked. I see guards where there should be none, I see a hand closing around my arm.

I stumble, my foot catching against uneven stone, and the impact jars me back into the present, pain lancing up through my leg, my balance faltering as the edges of my vision darken. My body cannot take this. Not like this. Not so close together.

I force myself forward anyway, my limbs slow to respond as the strain compounds, because if I lose control now, if I lose myself inside this… I will not come back.

I feel it when the air around me shifts. It is subtle, almost imperceptible, but I feel it, a change in pressure, a presence that was not there before, and I know, with a certainty, that I am already too late. They are here.

The realization hits harder than any vision, sharper than any pain, and whatever fragile control I have left fractures completely under its weight.

My knees give out. The ground rises to meet me in a blur of motion and impact, the cold stone unforgiving against my skin as I collapse, my body finally surrendering to the strain I have been forcing it to endure.

Sound becomes distant. Footsteps approach, measured and unhurried, that sends a different kind of fear threading through the remnants of my awareness.

I try to move, but I cannot.

My fingers twitch against the stone, unresponsive, my limbs heavy as though they no longer belong to me, and I hate this, this helplessness, this loss of control, because it is the one thing I have fought against my entire life.

A shadow falls over me. Then another.

Voices, low and unfamiliar, weave through the haze, their tone sharp with interest rather than cruelty, and that alone tells me everything I need to know.

I have been seen. Not as a person, never that. But as something potentially useful, which in this place is far more dangerous than being ignored. All these years I tried so hard to hide this.

Hands close around my arms, hauling me upright despite my lack of cooperation, and the contact sends a jolt through me that almost triggers another vision. I cannot survive another. I force my eyes open, though the world tilts dangerously when I do, and what I see confirms what I already know.

Dark elves.

Not the ones who run this place, not the ones I have learned to endure, their presence coiled and deliberate, that speaks of power rather than simple authority.

I have seen them before. Never this close. Only in fragments. Only in futures I tried not to understand. And now they are here. For me.

A cold, steady dread settles into my chest, heavier than fear, more certain than panic, and I do not struggle as they drag me forward, because I know it would change nothing, because I know this moment has already passed through my mind in pieces I refused to assemble.

The corridors blur as they pull me through them, my body barely cooperating, and I focus on staying conscious, on holding onto whatever clarity I can, because I will need it for what comes next. My hands are bound before I can even blink.

The doors ahead open. The space beyond them is vast, oppressive in its scale, the air heavier here, charged with something that presses against my senses in ways I cannot fully articulate, and I know, instantly, exactly where I am.

Not a place for slaves. A place of power. A place where decisions are made. A place where I should never have been brought. I failed to stay hidden.

They force me to my knees, my body barely catching itself before collapsing completely, and I lift my head despite every instinct telling me not to, meeting the gaze of those who stand before me.

Five figures. Each one radiating something different, something dangerous in its own way, their presence filling the space with a weight that is almost suffocating, and I do not need a vision to understand what I am looking at.

I have been delivered directly into the hands of those who will decide whether I am a weapon or a corpse.

One of them steps forward. Not the largest. Not the most visibly brutal. But the one whose attention settles on me with a weight that feels like a blade drawn slowly across skin.

He studies me as though I am already dissected, already understood, his gaze sharp enough that suggests he is not looking at what I show him, but at what I am trying to hide. That is the most dangerous kind of attention.

“You know why you are here. Now we want you to work for us if all of this is true,” he says, his voice calm, carrying an authority that does not need to be raised to be obeyed.

A command. Not a request. The room stills around it. Waiting for me to do anything. They are watching closely.

I feel the expectation pressing in from all sides, heavy, suffocating, and the instinct to comply flickers through me, born from survival, from conditioning, from the understanding that refusal often leads to consequences far worse than obedience.

But I know better. Because I have seen what happens when I let them.

I lift my head fully, meeting his gaze despite the risk, despite the way it sharpens the tension in the room to something almost tangible.

And I choose.

“No.”