Chapter 9
1626 Words
The whistle screamed before sunrise, a harsh, grating sound that tore through the thin veil of sleep Elara had barely managed to grasp.
Her eyes snapped open, heart hammering against her ribs.
The dream clung to her like a second skin, vivid and agonizingly real.The silver field.
The silver eyes.
The way his face had crumbled when she turned her back on him.
For five years, in every dream, every nightmare, every fleeting moment of subconscious hope, she had run toward him.
She had thrown herself into his arms, seeking salvation in his touch.
Last night had been the first time she had turned her back.
She had walked away from the only thing that felt real.And somehow, that disturbed her more than the r**e, more than the bruises, more than the cold stone she slept on.
It felt like she had rejected her own soul."Move your ass, you lazy w***e!"
An overseer's voice cracked like a whip through the dormitory.The slaves scrambled up, a hive of misery and fear.
Another day of hell had begun.Elara joined the shuffling line of bodies, heads bowed, eyes empty, moving through the cold, damp corridors toward the kitchens.
Outside, rain hammered against the castle walls, a relentless drumbeat of misery.
Dark clouds swallowed the sky, turning the morning into twilight. The ancient fortress looked even more menacing under the storm, a beast of stone and iron ready to devour them all.
But the castle felt different today. Restless. Tense.Messengers ran through the corridors, their faces pale and frantic. Guards stood at rigid attention, hands on their weapons.
Servants hurriedly carried bundles of parchment, maps, and supplies between towers, their movements frantic.
Something was happening. Something big. Something dangerous.
The moment Elara entered the kitchens, the air thick with the smell of burning fat and fear, she understood why.
"The King and the Commander have locked themselves in the War Room again," a cook whispered, his voice trembling.
He was chopping meat with violent, erratic strokes. "They've been there since before dawn."Several servants leaned in, eyes wide.
"I heard scouts returned from the northern border. Bad news."Another cook crossed himself, making a sign against evil.
"Gods help us if war comes. They'll burn us all.""War always comes," a scullery maid muttered, her voice hollow.
"It never truly disappears. It just waits for us to be weak."Nobody argued. War was as constant as winter, as inevitable as death.
But the conversation quickly shifted, as it always did, to the one topic that fueled more rumors than the King's depravity:
The Lord of Shadows. Commander Vaelith."The Commander hasn't left the War Room once," someone whispered.
"Not even to sleep.""Not surprising," another said, lowering their voice. "They say he sleeps less than ordinary men. Some say he doesn't sleep at all.
That he's not human."The older cook snorted, slamming a pot down. "They also say he was raised by wolves.
That he eats the hearts of his enemies. Stop listening to this bullshit."Laughter rippled through the room, nervous and brittle.
Even Elara forced a faint, hollow smile. The rumors surrounding the Commander grew more ridiculous every day. He was a man, not a monster.
Just a man in a mask.But then, a servant leaned in, her eyes wide with terrified fascination. "My cousin swears she saw his face once. When he removed his mask in private.
"The room went silent. Everyone leaned forward."What color?" someone asked."Silver," the servant whispered, shivering.
"Like moonlight. Like cold, dead steel."The room fell into a strange, heavy silence.Elara froze.
The knife in her hand slipped, cutting her thumb. A drop of blood fell onto the vegetable she was peeling.Silver eyes.
Coincidence. It had to be. Plenty of people had unusual eye colors.
Surely.But the thought didn't comfort her. Instead, a strange, cold feeling settled in her chest, a mix of fear and a terrifying, impossible hope. She quickly ignored it, wiping the blood on her tunic
Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid.Hours passed.
The kitchens became hotter, busier, noisier.
The castle seemed determined to feed an army, preparing for a siege that might never come.
By midday, Elara's shoulders screamed in agony from carrying heavy pots and baskets. Her hands were raw, her back broken.
She was scrubbing dishes, the hot water scalding her skin, when the head cook suddenly pointed a greasy finger at her."
You."Elara looked up, heart skipping a beat. "Yes, master?""Take this to the War Room.
Now."Her stomach dropped into her boots. The War Room.The head cook shoved a large, heavy tray into her hands.
Bread. Cheese. Roasted meat. Wine. Enough food for several men."
Don't drop it," he snapped. "If you spill a single drop, I'll have you whipped until you can't sit for a month."A few servants laughed nervously.
Elara didn't laugh. Not after what happened during the banquet.
Not after the King's hands, the King's r**e, the King's c*m on her face.She carefully took the tray, her fingers trembling. "
Yes, master."Then she left, her legs feeling like lead.The journey to the War
Room felt like a walk to the gallows. The deeper she traveled into the castle, the fewer people she encountered.
The air grew colder, heavier with tension.Eventually, she reached a heavily guarded corridor.
Two soldiers stood outside massive wooden doors, their faces grim. Unlike the King's guards, these men wore black armor.
The Shadow Legion. Their eyes were cold, dead, and terrifying.One of them opened the door without a word, his gaze sweeping over her with disdain.
Elara stepped inside.The room was enormous, filled with the smell of smoke, sweat, and fear. A fire roared in a stone hearth, but it provided no warmth.
Maps covered every table, marked with colored pins and carved pieces representing armies, deaths, and destruction.
Generals stood around, shouting over each other, discussing troop movements, supply routes, border defenses.
Everything sounded complicated. Everything sounded like death.At the center of the room stood King Lodrick.
His face was red, his eyes bloodshot, a goblet of wine in his hand.Beside him stood Commander Vaelith.
Even among so many powerful, dangerous men, he was impossible to ignore. The black armor.
The dark cloak. The mask that concealed his face, making him a ghost, a shadow, a monster.
He seemed less like a commander and more like death itself given human form.
Elara lowered her gaze immediately, her heart pounding so hard she thought it would burst.
She wanted to leave. She wanted to run.She crossed the room, her legs shaking.
She placed the tray on an empty table, her hands trembling so badly the plates rattled.
Then she turned to leave.Simple. Easy. Exactly as she had planned.Unfortunately, exhaustion and fear had other ideas.Her foot caught against the leg of a chair.
She stumbled.The tray rattled violently. A goblet tipped over. Wine spilled across the edge of the table, dripping onto the floor, staining the maps.
The room instantly fell silent. The shouting stopped.
The generals froze.Elara froze.Not again. Please, gods, not again.Heat rushed into her face.
Her stomach twisted. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm sorry.
"She immediately reached for the goblet, her hands shaking so badly she nearly knocked over another plate.One of the generals groaned, rubbing his face. "For gods' sake.
Can nobody hire competent servants anymore? Are we surrounded by idiots?"Laughter followed. Not the cruel, predatory laughter of the King's court.
This was annoyed, dismissive laughter. As though she was nothing more than a nuisance, a broken tool.Still, it made Elara want the floor to swallow her whole.
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn't cry. Not here. Not ever.Her hands trembled as she cleaned the spilled wine, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The King barely looked at her. He was already bored, already dismissing her existence.
Just another slave. Nothing more. A waste of space.Elara finished cleaning, her hands raw and bleeding from the broken glass she hadn't noticed.
She stepped back, head lowered, ready to escape.That was when she felt it.
Someone watching her.Not with lust. Not with anger.
Not with contempt.Slowly, against every instinct screaming at her to keep her head down, she looked up.Not toward the King.
Toward the Commander.The mask concealed most of his face, but she could feel his gaze. Intense.
Piercing. Studying her.He wasn't looking at her like a slave.
He wasn't looking at her like a woman. He was looking at her like he was trying to remember something.
The feeling lasted only a second. Then, he slowly turned his head away, returning his attention to the map before him.
His posture remained rigid, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before.
The moment was over.Elara lowered her eyes and quickly left the room, her legs barely holding her up.
The doors closed behind her. Inside, the discussion resumed. Troops. Borders. War. Death.Yet for some reason, Commander Vaelith found himself staring at the closed door for a moment longer than necessary.
His heart, usually a cold, steady drum, hammered against his ribs.A strange feeling lingered in the back of his mind, a ghost of a memory he couldn't grasp.
The slave looked familiar. The way she moved. The fear in her eyes.
The silver in her soul that he could feel even through the mask.Not enough to matter.
Not enough to investigate. Not yet.But just enough to be irritating.
Just enough to keep him awake.With a slight frown, he dismissed the thought, forcing himself to turn back to the war map.
But the image of her face, terrified and broken, burned in his mind.
Who are you? he thought, his fingers tightening on the edge of the table. And why do I feel like I've known you forever?
He didn't have the answer.
- Writer
