The Lock Is on the Inside
1290 Words
The door was not locked.
All night, all day, no guard, no chain, no growled warning. And Elara did nothing.
She stood beside it, touched the handle once or twice, even opened it a few inches. Cold wind sighed through the hallway beyond. There were no sounds of footsteps, no voices, no signs of life at all.
It was not mercy. It was something else. A game, maybe. Or a test.
Still, she did not go.
Because where would she go?
Outside the tower was a palace of predators. Nobles with sharpened teeth and magic running through their veins. Soldiers who would not think twice before cutting her down. And Darius—always watching, always thinking, always in command.
No. The tower may be a cage.
But it was the only place she had not been hurt.
Yet.
⸻
The days passed like mist.
Food was placed on a tray near the door—hot, fresh, and free of poison as far as she could tell. The bed was made when she wasn't looking. The fire was never allowed to go out. Someone was looking after her, but she never caught a glimpse of them.
Thalia came once, and she brought her a comb and a second dress—a dark blue one, soft as water.
“You’re not just a tribute,” she said cryptically. “Not anymore.”
Elara frowned. “Then what am I?”
Thalia hesitated. “Not a prisoner. But not free, either.”
“Then I’m still nothing.”
“No,” Thalia said gently, her eyes dark and steady. “Now you’re something that scares even them.”
⸻
On the third night, he returned.
No knock. No warning. One moment she was staring into the fire, the next he was standing there, a shadow among shadows.
She stood up precipitately, heart leaping.
"Am I to bow?" she whispered.
A faint smile touched his lips. "You're acquiring sarcasm."
She dropped her eyes. "That wasn't sarcasm. That was fear."
"Good," he replied. "I would be worried if it wasn't."
He moved across the room and stopped at the window, arms folded behind him, staring out into the forest of black pines and silver mist.
"Do you know what they say about me, Elara?
She didn't answer.
"That I was born of shadow. That I've lived a thousand lives. That I eat hearts."
He glanced at her. "Some of it's true."
She stepped back.
"I had no choice in what I am," he said. "But I did in what came after."
"You chose to rule by terror."
"Yes. Because love doesn't last. Terror does."
She said nothing.
He bowed his head. "Do you think me cruel?"
Elara considered lying. Then said, "Yes."
He laughed. A low, slow sound. "Good. You should."
"Why am I here?" she asked again. "Why haven't you killed me like the others?"
His smile fell.
"I don't know yet," he said honestly.
The silence stretched.
He crossed the room and stood in front of her. Not touching. Just… close. She felt the pull of him like gravity.
"I've watched women cry. Beg. Lie. You do none of those things."
"I've done all of them," she whispered. "Just not in front of you."
That flicked his brow.
"And yet… you still stand."
"Because there's nowhere else to fall."
A moment.
"You're not weak," he said, almost softly.
"I am. But I'm still alive."
Darius was quiet for a long while.
Then he turned and walked away.
⸻
That night, Elara dreamed of shadows curling around her wrists like silk. Of silver eyes and warm hands and a crown made of teeth.
She woke up crying.
⸻
She began to scour the tower.
It was not large, but each floor gave on to something strange. On the second floor, she found a library—dusty, untouched, filled with books in languages she could not read. The third was a garden, somehow flourishing under an enchanted roof that mimicked the sky. Black as ink, the roses were. Faintly blue, the vines shimmered.
The uppermost regions, which had been locked at first, creaked open on the fifth day.
Inside was a mirror.
Tall. Gold-framed. Decorated with runes that shone dimly when she touched them.
When she looked in, her own face stared back. But her eyes were different.
Gold.
Not brown.
She jerked back, surprised. The runes glowed brighter.
She did not go back.
⸻
The sixth night, Darius returned.
She did not flinch this time.
He brought no guards. No commands. Only himself.
He sat across from her by the fire, and for a while, they said nothing.
Finally, she spoke.
"What do you see when you look at me?"
Darius regarded her, firelight casting sharp lines on his face.
"A question mark."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one."
She played with the hem of her dress. "Do you see a toy? A threat? A novelty?"
He leaned forward. "Do you want me to say I see a woman?
"No," she said. "I don't think I am one. Not really. Not yet."
He looked at her silently. "And what would make you one?"
"When I'm not afraid anymore."
He was silent again.
Then—unexpectedly—he stood and held out a hand.
"Come."
She stared at it. "Why?"
"I want to show you something."
She took it uncertainly.
⸻
They walked through the palace in silence.
Down stairs bordered by golden sconces. Through doors that sighed as they passed. To the west wing, where the windows were stained glass in the shape of skulls.
Elara caught his arm as they reached a pair of doors marked by ancient, ominous symbols.
He opened them with a wave of his hand.
Inside was a courtyard.
Stone and moonlight and silence. There was one tree in the center—its leaves silver, its bark black, its roots tangled around glowing bones.
"It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It's the Tree of Memory."
She frowned. "Whose memories?"
He looked at her. "Mine."
She walked toward it, hand out. "What if you touch it?"
"You see what I've forgotten."
She hesitated. "May I?"
He didn't stop her.
When her fingers made contact with the bark, cold flashed through her veins.
⸻
She witnessed it all.
Blood. Fire. A boy with silver eyes weeping over a grave. A crown forged in screams. A betrayal by the hands of someone with eyes like hers. A war that never ended.
And him.
Younger. Softer. Still human.
She shoved away, panting.
Darius stood nearby, arms crossed, watching.
"You loved someone," she said.
"Once."
"What happened to her?"
"She chose fear over me."
Elara's heart ached. "So you became what she feared."
He nodded once.
And for the first time, she understood something terrible.
He hadn't built this kingdom out of power. He'd built it out of pain.
⸻
They walked back slowly.
No conversation.
But when they were at her door, she turned to him.
"You don't scare me the way you think you do."
He raised an eyebrow. "And how do you think you scare me?"
"You don't scare my body. You scare my heart."
He didn't speak a word.
Just looked.
Then, without a word, he lifted a hand—and touched her cheek.
Her flesh burned where he touched it.
But she didn't flinch.
Neither did he.
After a moment, he let go.
And turned away.
⸻
That night, she stood at the open window of her tower, the wind rushing in like breath.
She thought of running again.
But her feet stayed rooted.
Not because she was weak.
But because something stronger than fear had begun to bloom.
Curiosity.
Compassion.
And worst of all—hope.
⸻
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