Unrequited Love
1913 Words
A sudden hum in her skull made Tara gain consciousness one again.
I don't know how long we were travelling, as my senses were dulled by the spellbinding chains. I just know that I am yet to fully recover them.
" Where am I exactly?". Around her, there was only darkness and a humid, almost suffocating smell.
" In the deepest part of Belinium's dungeons. Congratulations! They say they only keep the dragons here. Must be nice to be considered such a high-risk monster."
Out of nowhere, a guard came from the shadows in front of me. He pressed a ledge, and suddenly a part of the roof was moving, allowing the daylight to light the room. Now that the room was lit enough, Tara was finally given the chance to grasp the state of her accommodation in Belinium. Just as pretty as she thought.
She was being chained, both hands and feet, in the middle of what looked like a cave. Nothing else but a few torches and this guard.
" What did you do to deserve this? I would like to know if our dear princess is just being a spoiled brat, again, or if this time she is imprisoning someone for a good reason. "
" You sure are a chatterbox, are you not?"
He looked at me a bit embarrassed, then took a step forward towards me. I could see him very clearly now. He was a very handsome knight. Broad shoulders, chiselled features, almost as tall as Atum, deep reddish brown hair and eyes so green they seem to glow in this forgotten hole she was imprisoned in.
" I apologise, my lady." He bowed. "My name is Sandor. I did not mean to offend you, or worse, talk your ear off, but I rarely get any prisoners down here, so I have no soul to speak to." He took another big apologetic bow.'
" Care to explain to this poor soul chained in your rarely occupied dungeon, how such a devoted and handsome knight as yourself speaks ill of his beloved princess?"
"Oh! Did I? My apologies."
"So"?
" I think, my beautiful lady, that I have asked you a question first. Isn't it rude to not give an answer yourself, but demand answers from me?
“I suppose,” I said hoarsely, lifting my chin despite the chains biting into my wrists, “that depends on how much truth you’re willing to hear.”
Sandor’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He dragged a stone closer to the torchlight and sat, resting his forearms on his knees, posture relaxed but eyes alert—trained.
“I have all the time in the world,” he replied. “Unlike you.”
I exhaled sharply. “Fair enough.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The dungeon breathed around us—water dripping somewhere far away, the faint echo of air moving through tunnels long forgotten. When I finally spoke, my voice surprised me with how steady it sounded.
“My name is Tara. I am not a monster. Nor am I a spy, a traitor, or whatever story your princess is spinning upstairs to justify chaining me like this.”
Sandor’s gaze sharpened. “You didn’t answer what you did.”
“I existed,” I said simply. “And that was enough.”
That earned a quiet huff of laughter from him, low and bitter. “Ah. Yes. That sounds like her.”
I frowned. “You speak of Elyndor with familiarity.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I used to.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
“I was taken from Andrax,” I continued, choosing my words carefully. “I was under Atum’s protection. Elyndor wanted leverage.
She wanted to win a war without fighting one.”
Sandor’s eyes flicked up. “Atum.”
The way he said the name—measured, cautious—told me everything. “You know him.”
“I know of him,” he corrected. “Everyone does. The Emperor who does not bend. The man who would rather burn his own crown than let another wear it.”
My chest tightened. “He was… engaged. To her.”
Sandor let out a slow breath. “That explains the chains.”
I laughed softly, though there was no humor in it. “He refused to marry her. Refused to set a date. Refused to purge more witches, more innocents, to prove himself worthy of her alliance.”
Sandor’s brows knit together. “So she took you.”
“Yes.”
“Because you matter to him.”
“Because I make him hesitate.”
That did it. Sandor leaned back against the stone wall, staring at the ceiling as if counting invisible cracks.
“She hates that,” he murmured.
“You sound like you know her well.”
He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that I wondered if I’d pushed too far. Then he laughed—once, sharply.
“I was her personal guard,” he said.
I blinked. “You?”
“For seven years,” he continued. “I slept outside her chambers. I bled for her. I killed for her. I knew her moods before she spoke a word.”
My stomach twisted.
“She trusted you,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied. “And that was my greatest mistake.”
He finally looked at me, green eyes dark now, stripped of their earlier amusement.
“She fell in love with me.”
The words hung between us.
“I didn’t return it,” he went on quietly. “Not because she wasn’t beautiful. She is. Not because she wasn’t powerful. Gods know she is. But because love, to her, is ownership. And I have already knelt to one tyrant in my life. I will not kneel to another.”
“What did she do?” I asked softly, though I already sensed the answer.
“She destroyed me,” Sandor said simply.
My throat tightened.
“She accused my family of treason. Excommunicated them from the court. Stripped them of land, title, protection. Then she looked at me—me, who had guarded her body with my own—and told me I had disappointed her.”
His hands curled into fists. “She demoted me. Sent me here. To guard a dungeon meant for dragons that no longer exist. A living reminder of what happens when you refuse her.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. You didn’t do this.”
“No,” I whispered. “But I understand it.”
Our eyes met then, and something unspoken settled between us—not attraction, not romance, but recognition. Two people crushed under the weight of the same woman’s pride.
“You’re not a monster,” Sandor said quietly. “You’re a threat.”
I laughed bitterly. “Tell that to the chains.”
“They won’t hold forever,” he replied.
I studied him carefully. “Why are you telling me all this?”
He hesitated. “Because I think she underestimated you. And because I’m tired of watching good people rot in her shadows.”
“Careful,” I warned. “That sounds dangerously close to treason.”
His smile returned—this one sharp. “I’ve already lost everything worth protecting.”
For the first time since waking in chains, I felt something loosen in my chest.
Atum stood over the war table, unmoving.
The map beneath his hands was pristine—too pristine. Borders etched in gold, cities marked with sigils of power, supply lines calculated down to the last ration.
None of it mattered.
“She vanished,” the general said again, voice tight. “No trace. No magic signature. No witnesses beyond the initial breach.”
Atum’s fingers curled slowly against the stone.
“Say it again,” he ordered.
The room held its breath.
“We cannot find her,” the man repeated.
Atum straightened.
For a moment, those who knew him thought he might explode—rage, fire, death. They had seen him raze cities for less.
Instead, he laughed.
A low, broken sound that sent a chill through every spine in the room.
“I felt it,” Atum said quietly. “The moment she was taken. Like something was torn out of me.”
The council exchanged uneasy glances.
“She is not merely important to you,” one of them ventured carefully. “She is—”
“Mine,” Atum snapped.
The word cracked the air.
He turned, eyes blazing. “Do not dress it up as affection or strategy. I am not merely fond of her. I am not merely in love.”
He took a step forward, power rolling off him like heat.
“I am obsessed.”
Silence.
“I think of her when I wake. I think of her when I sleep. Every decision I make bends around the axis of her existence. I would unmake this empire with my own hands if it meant she would look at me without fear.”
The room was frozen.
“And now,” he continued softly, dangerously, “someone has taken her. Hidden her from me.”
His lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.
“There is nowhere in this world I will not burn to find her.”
Time passed strangely in the dark. Hours—or days—bled together, measured only by the shifting torchlight and Sandor’s occasional visits.
He brought water. Food. Small mercies disguised as indifference.
And conversation.
“You should hate him,” Sandor said one night, sitting across from me. “Atum.”
“I should,” I admitted. “Sometimes I do.”
“But?”
“But he never lied to me about what he is,” I said. “Elyndor lies even to herself.”
Sandor hummed thoughtfully. “That may be the difference between a tyrant and a devil.”
I shivered.
“She watches you,” he added quietly. “Obsessively.”
“I know.”
“She wants you broken before she presents you. Wants you to beg.”
I lifted my chin. “She will be disappointed.”
His lips twitched. “I suspected as much.”
He hesitated, then leaned closer. “If an opportunity arises… would you run?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“Even if it means war?”
I thought of Atum. Of his hands. His voice. His fury.
“Yes,” I repeated. “Especially then.”
Sandor nodded once. “Good.”
The empire trembled.
Scouts returned empty-handed. Seers bled from their eyes. Spells shattered against unseen walls.
Atum tore through the palace like a storm given flesh.
“She is alive,” he snarled at the council. “I would know if she were dead.”
“And if she is being used against you?” someone dared ask.
Atum stopped.
Slowly, he turned.
“Then Belinium will learn,” he said softly, “what it means to provoke a god who has nothing left to lose.”
He paused, jaw tightening.
“She thinks this is about pride,” he added. “About crowns and alliances.”
His eyes darkened.
“She has no idea what she has stolen from me.”
- Writer
