(A Short Story)
Eleanor Velrois sat by the arched window of her chamber, the waning sunlight painting the room in hues of amber and rose. Her book lay open in her lap, though she hadn't turned a page in over an hour. The familiar words of fairy tales blurred before her eyes as her thoughts drifted to a story of her own making.
Outside, the rolling hills of Velrois stretched toward the horizon, bathed in the serene glow of dusk. But the beauty of the world outside was lost on Eleanor as her mind wandered back to the dark recesses of Ebonstone Stronghold.
The cold, damp stone walls. The heavy iron chains. The oppressive weight of hopelessness.
She could still hear the echo of her own shallow breaths in the silence, the gnawing fear that no one was coming. That she would vanish from the world, forgotten and discarded.
But then, salvation had come.
Draven Eisenhart.
Her thoughts painted a scene worthy of the grandest epics. She imagined him as a figure of unwavering resolve, bursting into her prison like a storm. Gray hair catching the torchlight, his sword gleaming with battle's aftermath, he stood as a beacon of hope amidst the desolation.
"Eleanor," she whispered to herself, echoing the words she imagined he might have said, her voice soft and wistful. "I've come for you."
She could almost feel the weight of his steady gaze, the unspoken promise of safety in his presence.
Yet, Eleanor knew the truth.
When he had opened her cell door, there had been no grand declaration, no poetic vow of protection. His first words were brusque and matter-of-fact: "Who are you?"
She had been a stranger to him, another unfortunate soul in need of rescue. The battle was already over, her liberation more a consequence of his efficiency than any knightly quest.
And yet, she couldn't help but romanticize it.
In her heart, she crafted the story differently. She imagined him cutting through enemies with surgical precision, each strike a testament to his unwavering determination. She saw him navigating the stronghold's labyrinthine halls with one goal in mind: finding her.
The Eleanor in her mind's eye reached out for him, and his hand clasped hers firmly, his voice steady as he promised, "I'll take you home."
Reality might lack such theatrics, but the truth didn't matter. In her world of daydreams, he was her hero.
She brushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear and smiled faintly. The young woman who had always preferred the quiet solace of her books now found her thoughts consumed by him.
Draven wasn't warm or gentle, not in the way the princes and knights of her stories were. He was sharp-edged, pragmatic, even distant. But there was a strength in him, an unyielding resolve that captivated her.
He had brought her home, returned her to her father, and ensured her safety. For that, she was grateful. But there was something more, something she couldn't quite name.
'What drives him? What does he hide behind those piercing eyes?'
Eleanor's fingers traced the gilded edges of her book as her mind delved deeper. In her imagination, Draven stood before her, his golden hair catching the sunlight, his presence as commanding as ever.
"Eleanor," he said in her dream, his voice soft but firm, "you are stronger than you know. But if ever you falter, I will be there."
Her cheeks flushed at the thought, and she hugged the book to her chest. She knew these were the musings of a foolish girl, but she couldn't help herself. Draven Eisenhart was no knight in shining armor, no prince from a fairy tale. He was something far more complex—and far more real.
Perhaps that was what made him so intriguing.
The world outside her window darkened as the sun dipped below the horizon, and the stars began to glimmer faintly in the velvet sky. Eleanor's mind wandered once more, this time to the moment of her rescue.
In her imagination, Draven stood tall amidst the chaos of Ebonstone Stronghold, his grayish hair gleaming like a crown in the torchlight. He had fought valiantly to reach her, and when he opened her cell door, his eyes softened as he saw her.
"Come with me," he would say, his voice steady but tender.
She imagined herself clinging to him as he lifted her onto his horse, her arms wrapped around his waist as they rode through the darkness. The wind would whip through her hair as the strong, rhythmic gallop of his steed carried them to safety. His presence would be her shield, his warmth a beacon in the cold night.
But Eleanor let out a small, wry laugh at the thought. That wasn't how it had happened.
No, when Draven had found her, there was no horse, no romantic escape under the stars. Instead, he had regarded her with a sharp, assessing gaze before uttering the most baffling words she'd ever heard.
"I will put you inside my ring."
She blinked at him in confusion, barely grasping his meaning before a surge of light enveloped her. The next thing she knew, she was standing in a strange, shimmering space—an impossibly vast, pristine chamber that defied everything she understood about the world. But no, it was not as she had imagined. Inside this radiant expanse lay a timeless void.
When she was finally released from the magical artifact, safe and sound in Velrois Castle, the rumors had already begun to spread. The enigmatic Draven Eisenhart had "sealed the damsel in his ring," some said, spinning tales of otherworldly powers and forbidden sorcery. Others whispered of a bond between them, forged in magic and secrecy.
Eleanor pressed her fingertips to her lips, stifling a giggle. The truth was far less romantic than the rumors, but even so, she couldn't help but let her imagination run wild.
'What kind of man casually announces he's going to put someone in a ring as if it's the most natural thing in the world?'
She pictured his stoic expression, his grayish hair catching the faint glow of torchlight, and the way he had spoken with such calm certainty.
"You'll be safe there," he had said, almost dismissively, as if transporting someone into a magical space was no different from offering a cloak on a cold night.
Despite herself, Eleanor smiled. He was strange, undeniably so, but perhaps that was part of what fascinated her. Draven Eisenhart wasn't bound by the rules of the world she knew. He was a man of mystery, his powers and motivations hidden beneath layers she longed to uncover.
Her fingers traced the edges of the book in her lap as her thoughts turned wistful. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to their story than she realized.
She glanced out at the night sky, the stars glimmering faintly in the distance. In her heart, a quiet hope whispered.
One day, she thought, perhaps I'll understand him—and perhaps he'll see me too.