Chapter 5 Elena #2
I swallowed, my throat dry. His words were too close to thoughts I had buried. Thoughts whispered by restless youths of Solaris, who dreamed of leaving the plateau, who begged for freedom beyond the portals. Hearing the accusation from him—this cursed shadow—the certainty in me wavered.
“You know nothing of our burdens,” I snapped, if only to silence the echo of my own doubt. “Solaris stands because we guard it. The Sun God entrusted me with its protection, and the Elders ensure that protection endures.”
“Protection,” he repeated, tasting the word as if it were ash. “A gilded cage is still a cage, Elena.”
My breath hitched at the sound of my name in his mouth. No one but my closest companions spoke it with such intimacy. His voice gave it weight, as though it belonged to him, not me. I hated how it unsettled me.
“You have blood on your hands,” I declared, trying to fan the embers of my righteous anger.
He stepped closer. The shadows stirred around him, but not in anger—in emphasis. “Your Paladins came armed, blazing with light that sears me like flame. What would you have me do? Kneel and accept execution?”
“You could have yielded,” I said, though the conviction in my voice trembled.
“And been dragged in chains to Solaris? Paraded before your Elders like a beast? Dissected by your scholars to uncover what makes me endure?” His voice rose, each word sharp as steel. “I know what fate waits for me if I fall into their hands. Death would be kinder.”
The shadows recoiled suddenly, as though reflecting his fury. The ones binding me tightened, and I gasped as the cold bit into my skin. He caught the motion, and his expression shifted—anger melting into something more complicated. He lifted his hand, and the shadows slackened again.
I rubbed my wrists against the bark, grateful for the release but unwilling to show it. “You expect me to pity you.”
“No,” he said simply. His voice was quiet again, raw. “I expect nothing from you.”
The honesty in it stole my breath.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The forest around us was still, holding its breath as though even the twisted trees strained to listen.
Finally, I broke the silence. “If you speak true, if you have no malice toward Solaris, then why haunt its borders? Why linger here, drawing us into endless battle?”
He looked away, toward the unseen heart of his domain, where the shadows thickened like fog.
“Because I cannot leave. Nyx bound me to the night, and this forest is where her curse roots deepest. Beyond it, the light scorches me to nothing. Do you think I relish this half-existence? I endure because I must. That is all.”
The weight in his voice was too heavy to be feigned. A century of solitude pressed against me in that moment, and I shivered.
“You could have called out to me,” I whispered, almost against my will. “I would have listened. I… might have believed.”
His head snapped back to me, eyes blazing with incredulity. “Would you?”
I faltered. My lips parted, but no words came.
He stepped closer again, shadows curling lazily around him. “You speak of compassion, yet you sent men into my woods with swords of fire and prayers of war. Did you think they came to parley? No. They came to destroy.”
My chest tightened. “I sent them because I believed it was right. I believed you were a threat.”
“And now?” His voice dropped lower. Almost… intimate .
I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. The truth gnawed at me, bitter and reluctant: I did not know.
My heart warred with my duty. With the faith that had carried me for the better part of a century.
And my heart, cursed thing, was winning ground.
“You said the Elders…” I began, hesitant, “that they might be responsible for the children. Explain yourself.”
His gaze sharpened, as if testing whether I truly wished to hear.
“I have seen things at the edges of your wards,” he said slowly.
“Symbols in a tongue older than Solaris itself, carved into stones where no Paladin dares tread. Wagons slipping through the portal gates at night, escorted by those not clad in armor but in robes of authority. I hear the cries of children in dreams not my own.”
I shook my head. “No. The Elders would never—”
His hand cut the air, sharp. “Do not be blind. You look at me and see a curse. But what curse drives men to barter with shadows willingly?”
The accusation twisted inside me. I thought of Elder Kathar’s smooth voice dismissing my concerns, of his smile that never reached his eyes. I thought of the orphans vanishing, and of how quickly the matter had been brushed aside in council. A chill sank into my bones.
“You feed me lies,” I said, though the words faltered. “To turn me against my own. To make me doubt.”
His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “I do not need to embed what already grows in you, priestess. The doubt is yours.”
I closed my eyes briefly, fighting the sting of truth.
When I opened them, he was still watching me, his gaze not predatory but searching—almost bewildered, as though he too could not fathom what tether pulled us into conversation instead of slaughter.
He turned slightly, as though retreating into the comfort of the shadows. Yet he lingered, waiting, as if hoping I might speak again. And I hated that part of me wanted to.
I drew a breath, steadying myself. “You said you endure because you must. But what if there were a way to end it?”
His head snapped back, and for the first time, I saw something blaze in his eyes that was not anger. Hope. Desperate, fragile hope.
“What do you mean?” His voice was rough, strained.
I hesitated. The old stories stirred in my memory—the tale of the mage cursed by Nyx, who could be freed only by light pure enough to pierce the darkness. I had always dismissed it as allegory, meant to warn apprentices against ambition. But if he was truly that mage…
“I know of the prophecy,” I said slowly. “That only light may set you free.”
He stared at me, every shadow around him holding still. His voice, when it came, was scarcely more than a whisper. “Then perhaps… that is why I cannot turn away from you.”
The words struck me like a blade and a balm all at once. My breath caught, and for a long moment, the world narrowed to the space between us—darkness and light straining toward one another, neither willing to break.
His words lingered between us, heavy, dangerous: perhaps that is why I cannot turn away from you.
I told myself it was manipulation. A cunning ploy from a cursed being desperate to twist my compassion into a weapon.
Yet when I looked at him, when I truly looked, I did not see the gloating cruelty of an enemy who had cornered me.
I saw the tremor in his jaw, the way his eyes wavered as though daring me to laugh, to scoff, to shatter that fragile flicker of hope.
I did not laugh.
Instead, I felt my own chest tighten, as though the weight of his confession pressed against me, demanding acknowledgement.
“You think I could free you?” I asked quietly.
“You are the brightest light I have ever seen,” he said, and there was no mockery in it, no honeyed deception. Just truth, raw and bare. “When you entered the forest, every shadow recoiled. You carry the Sun’s fire in your veins. If any flame could burn through Nyx’s chains, it is yours.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to deny it, to remind him and myself that I was here to end him, not save him. But the words caught, unspoken.
“Light is not always mercy,” I whispered at last. “Sometimes it is only destruction.”
His lips curved, but it was not a smile. “And yet destruction might be mercy, if it ends the curse.”
I should have seized on that. Should have told him that mercy was precisely what I intended: to destroy him so Solaris could live unthreatened. Yet when I tried to form the words, I faltered. Because if I destroyed him, would that truly be mercy—or simply obedience to fear dressed as duty?
The chains of shadow around my wrists pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat. I shifted, rubbing at the ache. His eyes flicked toward the motion, and to my surprise, the bindings loosened again, though not enough to free me.
“You’re sparing me,” I said, testing the thought aloud. “Why?”
He studied me a long moment. “Because killing you would be easy. Too easy. And yet…” His gaze softened, almost reluctant. “I do not wish to.”
It was the strangest thing: to be feared, revered, desired by my people as untouchable, immortal—and yet here, to hear him admit that he could kill me, but he simply did not wish to do it, as though it were a choice he puzzled over.
The simplicity unsettled me more than any threat.
“You…” I faltered. “You are not what I expected.”
That earned me a bitter laugh. “And what did you expect? A beast dripping with shadow? Easier to kill monsters than men, is it not?”
“Yes,” I admitted, my voice thin.
He went still at my honesty. Then, slowly, he said, “Perhaps that is why you hesitate now.”
I stiffened, hating that he was right. Hating more that he could see it so plainly.
The admission struck me harder than any blade. My people had whispered of his monstrosity for decades. I had preached it myself. And yet here I was, bound in his forest, and for the first time, I doubted the truth of our stories.
I closed my eyes, the weight of it crashing down.
When I opened my eyes, he was watching me again.
“You doubt,” he said softly.
I swallowed hard. “I… question.”
A faint smile ghosted his lips. “That is enough.”
“Do not mistake it for belief,” I warned quickly, clinging to what scraps of defiance remained. “You may sway me with words, but words are wind. Proof is stone. Until I see stone, I will not yield.”
“Then look for yourself,” he said, gesturing toward the forest beyond. “See how my snares wound but do not kill. Walk where your Paladins fled, and you will find them alive, shaken but breathing. I could end them, but I do not. That is proof enough.”