Chapter 16
1723 Words
The morning bell screamed through the castle before the sun even dared to rise, a harsh, clanging reminder that sleep was a privilege, not a right.
Elara was already awake. She hadn't slept. Not really. When exhaustion finally dragged her down into the black void, it brought no dreams. No silver eyes. No moonlit fields. For the first time in five years, the darkness was just empty, silent, and cold.
The absence felt wrong. Like missing a limb she didn't know she had lost.
She sat on the edge of her narrow, straw-filled mattress, shivering in the damp air. Around her, the other slaves were already stirring, groaning, cursing as they prepared for another day of hell.
Her mind drifted back to the previous evening. To the Commander's chamber. To those f*****g eyes.
Silver.
Not gray. Not blue. Silver. Like polished mercury. Like the cold blade of a knife.
A shiver racked her body, sharp and violent.
The memory had burned through her all night. She had seen Commander Vaelith countless times since he arrived at this s**t-hole of a palace. She had seen him marching through hallways, stomping across courtyards, standing like a statue of death beside the King during those grotesque banquets where nobles got fat while people starved.
But yesterday had been different.
Yesterday, she had looked directly into his eyes.
And something inside her had snapped.
Something had recognized him.
It was terrifying.
It was painful.
It felt like her soul had been ripped out and handed back to her.
Elara shook her head violently.
"Ridiculous," she whispered, her voice cracking. "You're f*****g crazy."
A nearby slave, a girl with hollow eyes and a bruised cheek, glanced up.
"What?"
"Nothing," Elara snapped, standing up so fast her head spun. "Just... nothing."
She had spent too many years dreaming. That was the problem. Five years of those vivid, sickeningly beautiful dreams had blurred the line between fantasy and reality. She was losing her mind. Commander Vaelith was a real man. A dangerous, violent man who probably killed people for breakfast. He was nothing more than a high-ranking soldier in a kingdom built on blood.
The silver eyes meant nothing. They were a coincidence. A trick of the light. A symptom of starvation and exhaustion.
Determined to crush the thought before it got her killed, she followed the others toward the kitchens, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.
The war room occupied the highest floor of the eastern tower, a place where the air was thick with the smell of stale wine, expensive perfume, and the scent of men planning mass murder. Rain hammered against the narrow windows, but inside, the atmosphere was even more stormy. Generals were screaming at each other around a table covered in maps, their faces red with rage and greed.
Wooden markers representing armies—thousands of lives—were being shoved around like toys.
King Lodrick sat at the head of the table, tapping his fingers impatiently. He looked bored. As usual. To him, war was a game. A f*****g sport.
"...if we reinforce the northern pass, we can delay them for weeks," one general argued, slamming his fist on the table.
Another immediately disagreed, spitting insults. Voices rose. Threats were exchanged. The discussion was going nowhere, just like every other f*****g meeting in this castle.
Commander Vaelith heard every word.
And he retained none of it.
His attention was fixed on something else.
Someone else.
The slave.
Elara.
Even now, the image of her was burned into his brain. The way she had stood in his chamber, trembling like a frightened animal. The way she had lowered her eyes, refusing to look at him. The way she had seemed completely unaware of who she was to him.
Or perhaps more accurately—what she was to him.
Five years.
Five years of dreams that felt more real than this f*****g war.
Five years of questions that had driven him to the brink of insanity.
Five years of wondering if she was real, or if he had finally lost his mind.
Now he knew.
She was real.
She was flesh and blood.
And somehow, that answer had created even more questions.
Who was she?
Why was she here?
Why was she a slave?
"Commander."
King Lodrick's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife.
Vaelith lifted his gaze slowly.
The King was staring at him, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. Several generals were looking at him too, waiting for him to speak.
"You've been unusually quiet," Lodrick said, his eyes narrowing. "Got something to say? Or are you too busy planning your next conquest?"
Vaelith's expression remained unchanged, a mask of cold indifference.
"We have enough men to hold the pass. The rest of this discussion is a waste of time."
The answer came immediately.
Cold.
Precise.
Final.
The generals exchanged glances, some looking offended, others looking relieved that someone finally shut the King up.
The discussion resumed, but Vaelith's attention had already moved elsewhere.
He didn't care about their petty arguments.
He didn't care about their maps.
He cared about the woman who had looked at him with fear in her eyes.
The kitchens were chaos by midday.
The air was thick with steam, smoke, and the smell of burning food.
Elara carried sacks of vegetables from the storage cellars, her back screaming in pain. Then water. Then firewood. Then more vegetables. The endless cycle of labor left little room for thought.
Which suited her perfectly.
Every time her mind wandered toward silver eyes, she forced herself to work harder.
She scrubbed floors until her hands bled.
She carried loads that were too heavy.
She pushed her body to the brink of collapse.
The Commander had already forgotten her.
Why wouldn't he?
She was a slave.
One among hundreds.
A face people barely noticed.
A nobody.
The idea should have comforted her.
It should have made her feel safe.
Instead, she found herself oddly disappointed.
Angry.
Hurt.
Elara frowned at the thought, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dirty sleeve.
Then she immediately hated herself for it.
What the f**k was wrong with her?
She was a slave.
He was a Commander.
He was dangerous.
He was probably a monster.
She was stupid.
She was crazy.
She was going to get herself killed.
When the war council finally ended, Vaelith crossed the training grounds alone. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained a bruised, gray mess. Soldiers continued their drills below the castle walls, the sound of metal on metal ringing out like a death knell.
Captain Kaelen waited near the stables.
Unlike most members of the Shadow Legion, Kaelen wore no mask. A long, ugly scar crossed his jaw, a reminder of the things they had done together. He had served Vaelith for over a decade. Long enough to recognize when something was unusual.
And today was unusual.
Vaelith looked like a man on the edge of a breakdown.
"You wanted to see me, Commander?" Kaelen asked, his voice low.
Vaelith stopped.
For a moment he watched the soldiers training in the yard, his jaw clenched.
Then he spoke, his voice rough.
"The slave who delivered my meal yesterday."
Kaelen blinked.
Of all the things he expected to hear, that had not been one of them.
He stared at Vaelith, confusion written all over his face.
"What about her?"
"Find out who she is."
The captain's expression didn't change. Years of discipline prevented that.
Still, surprise flickered briefly in his eyes.
He knew better than to ask questions, but this was different. This was dangerous.
"A problem?" Kaelen asked carefully.
"No."
"Then why—"
The question died beneath Vaelith's stare.
The Commander's eyes were cold, terrifying.
Kaelen swallowed hard, nodding once.
"I'll have the information before nightfall."
Vaelith nodded.
The conversation ended there.
As it always did.
No explanations.
No justifications.
Just orders.
Darkness had already settled over the castle when Kaelen returned.
A fire burned inside Vaelith's chamber, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The untouched remains of dinner sat forgotten on a nearby table, cold and congealed.
Kaelen stood across from the Commander, a folded parchment in his hand.
He looked uncomfortable.
"I found her."
Vaelith remained silent, his eyes fixed on the captain.
The captain took a deep breath, then continued.
"Her name is Elara."
The name settled heavily in the room.
Elara.
It sounded like a prayer.
Like a curse.
For some reason, hearing it made her feel even more real.
More dangerous.
"She's twenty-two," Kaelen said, unfolding the parchment. His voice was flat, professional. "Sold into slavery five years ago."
Vaelith's eyes narrowed slightly.
Five years.
The same number of years he had dreamed about her.
The same number of years she had appeared beneath moonlit skies, touching him, speaking to him, making him feel things he shouldn't feel.
Coincidence?
Or something else?
Something darker?
"No family records," Kaelen continued reading, his voice monotone. "No known relatives. No noble connections. No unusual history."
The captain lowered the parchment, looking at Vaelith with a mix of concern and confusion.
"She's just a slave, Commander. A nobody. There's nothing there."
Silence filled the chamber.
The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the room.
Outside, wind rattled the windows, howling like a wounded animal.
Vaelith stared into the flames, his mind racing.
Just a slave.
The words felt wrong.
They felt like a lie.
Because for five years she had occupied his dreams.
For five years she had haunted his nights, making him feel things he had forgotten how to feel.
For five years she had been the only person capable of making him forget war, forget blood, forget death.
No.
Elara was many things.
She was a slave.
She was a victim.
She was a mystery.
But she was not just a slave.
And for the first time since arriving at Castle Valdren, Commander Vaelith found himself caring about something far more dangerous than politics, war, or power.
He cared about a woman.
And in this kingdom, caring about someone was the fastest way to get them killed.
But he didn't care.
Let the world burn.
Let the King rage.
Let the gods themselves try to stop him.
He was going to protect her.
Even if it cost him everything.
- Writer
