Elara stirred, her body aching from the hard stone floor beneath her. For a moment, she didn't move, her mind trapped in the hazy void between sleep and waking. Her lashes fluttered open, revealing the dim ceiling above her. The faint glow of the magical gate cast soft, shifting patterns on the walls, the only source of light in the small, cold cell.
Her stomach growled faintly, a dull reminder of her hunger. She blinked slowly, trying to piece together her thoughts, but her mind felt heavy, blank. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it had all been a dream. The shadows, the voices, the fight, the unfamiliar faces—had it all been some twisted figment of her imagination?
She turned her head, her gaze landing on the shimmering gate. Its glittering light flickered like a living thing, holding her within its confines. Her breath hitched.
This… this is real.
Elara pushed herself upright with some effort, her movements slow and unsteady. Her arms wrapped around her knees as she stared at the gate, her heart sinking. It wasn't just real—it was far worse than she had allowed herself to believe.
The memories came rushing back, one after the other, like waves crashing against the shore. The shadowy figure, the fight, the strange soldiers, the castle, and now… this cell. A deep weariness settled in her chest.
She let out a long sigh, her fingers curling against the fabric of her clothes. She didn't know what to do, who to trust, or how to escape. Everything was so far beyond her understanding, and her mind refused to process it any further.
For a while, she sat in silence, staring at nothing in particular. The cell was quiet except for the faint hum of the magical gate. Her thoughts felt like a blank canvas—no solutions, no plans, no strength to fight.
What am I supposed to do now?
She leaned back against the cold wall, tilting her head up to look at the ceiling. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders as her weary eyes traced the faint patterns in the stone above. It didn't bring comfort, but it was something to focus on.
Her stomach growled again, louder this time, but she barely reacted. Hunger, fatigue, confusion—it was all blending together into a haze of numbness.
I can't think. I'm too tired to think.
Elara sighed for what felt like the millionth time, her chest rising and falling with the weight of it. Slowly, she shifted her position and lay back down on the cold floor, the rough stone pressing against her cheek. It wasn't comfortable, but she no longer cared.
Her eyelids felt heavy, the pull of sleep too strong to resist despite the unease gnawing at the edges of her mind. She knew she couldn't afford to rest here, not in a place like this. But her body, her exhausted, aching body, had other plans.
As her eyes fluttered shut, a single thought slipped through the fog in her mind: I have to survive. Somehow.
And then, finally, her breathing evened out as she drifted into a restless sleep, the faint glow of the gate casting a pale light over her still figure.
---
The dungeon was quiet, save for the faint hum of magic coursing through the shimmering gate. Aerondrion stepped inside with his usual commanding grace, his boots barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. The air here was cooler, heavier, laced with a strange calm that only deepened when his sharp eyes fell upon her.
Elara lay on the floor, her small frame curled slightly, her breathing slow and steady. In the dim light, her features were soft, almost serene, as if she had momentarily escaped the chaos of her reality. Aerondrion stilled, his gaze lingering longer than he intended.
He had expected her to be awake.
The loose strands of her dark hair fell across her face, framing it like threads of midnight silk. For the first time in his life, Aerondrion felt something foreign stir within him: curiosity.
Against his better judgment, he moved closer, his footsteps as quiet as a whisper. When he stopped beside her, he bent down slowly, a rare act for someone of his stature. His piercing eyes traced her delicate features—her pale skin, her slightly parted lips, and the faint rise and fall of her chest as she slept. She seemed so human, so unthreatening.
His gloved fingers twitched, a sudden, instinctive desire to brush the hair away from her face taking him by surprise. It was irrational, unnecessary, and yet the urge lingered, stubbornly refusing to fade.
But Aerondrion knew better. He straightened himself, his expression hardening once more. He couldn't allow himself to be swayed by appearances. She was still an unknown—a potential threat to the kingdom and its delicate balance.
Humans are fragile, he reminded himself. They are not built for this world.
As much as he disliked the thought, he couldn't leave her like this, lying on the cold stone floor. But making any move, any gesture of care, would be unwise. Not until he was certain she had no part to play in Vaylen's return.
With a quiet exhale, he turned and walked away, his cloak swishing softly behind him. He paused briefly at the gate, his eyes lingering on her one last time before he disappeared into the shadowy corridor beyond.
The night was restless, haunted by echoes of battle and shadows that seemed to linger even when the moonlight had faded. Aerondrion stood in the training grounds, his muscles coiled like a tightly wound spring. Sweat trickled down his brow, his chest rising and falling heavily as he struck at the wooden practice dummies with calculated precision. Each strike was fueled by the weight of the unanswered questions swirling in his mind.
He couldn't rest. The images of Vaylen's taunting smirk and the mortal girl sleeping in the cell played over and over in his thoughts. What was her role in all of this? Could she truly be connected to Vaylen, or was she just another victim of the shadows' cruel games?
The air around him was cool and crisp, yet his body burned with exertion. His sword whistled through the air, the sound cutting through the silence of the night as he moved with a fluidity born of years of practice. Every swing, every step, was an attempt to drown out the chaos in his mind, to replace confusion with control.
By the time dawn arrived, the first rays of sunlight stretched across the castle grounds, painting them in hues of gold and amber. Aerondrion's movements slowed, his breathing steadying. His body ached, but it was a familiar pain, one he welcomed. It reminded him that he was still grounded, still capable of action despite the storm within him.
He returned to his chambers, the large space dimly lit by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. Steam rose from the hot water as he stepped into the shower, letting the warmth wash away the sweat and grime from his sleepless night. The water cascaded over his skin, soothing his tense muscles. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes, the steady stream lulling him into a semblance of calm.
When he emerged, his expression was sharper, his resolve firmer. He dressed with precision, pulling on his dark tunic and fastening the intricate clasps of his armor with practiced ease. The silver accents caught the morning light, giving him an air of command.
Aerondrion's first task was to ensure the guardians were where they needed to be. As he strode through the training grounds, his presence alone was enough to command attention. The younger recruits straightened their stances, their movements more disciplined under his watchful gaze.
"Keep your footing steady," he said to one, his voice steady but firm. "You can't protect this realm if you're the one falling."
The recruit nodded quickly, redoubling his efforts. Aerondrion's sharp eyes scanned the rest of the grounds, ensuring every guardian was prepared for their duties. Order was crucial, especially now when the threat of Vaylen loomed like a dark cloud on the horizon.
Satisfied, he turned and made his way back into the castle. The grand hallways stretched before him, lined with towering stone pillars and adorned with tapestries that told the stories of battles long past. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of lavender from the enchanted sconces that illuminated the space.
His steps were deliberate as he approached his office, the heavy doors creaking slightly as he pushed them open. The room was spacious, with high ceilings and shelves filled with ancient tomes and scrolls. A large wooden desk sat at the center, its surface neatly arranged with maps, reports, and a lone quill resting in an inkwell.
Aerondrion stood for a moment. This space had always been a place of strategy and planning, but today, it felt heavier. Today, it would serve as the stage for a conversation he wasn't certain how to begin.
He straightened and turned to the servant waiting by the door. "Bring the girl," he commanded, his voice cool and steady.
The servant bowed and disappeared, leaving Aerondrion alone with his thoughts. He moved to the window, the morning light filtering through the glass and casting faint patterns on the stone floor. His gaze wandered over the horizon, where the training grounds stretched out below and the distant mountains framed the castle.
He couldn't afford to act rashly. The girl—Elara—needed to be questioned, but not harmed. There were too many unknowns, and while he wasn't one to trust easily, he also wasn't one to jump to conclusions without evidence.
The door creaked open behind him, signaling the servant's return. Aerondrion turned, his expression unreadable as he awaited the arrival of the girl who, unknowingly, had become a small yet significant piece in the unfolding war against darkness.