Page 38 of Kissed By the Sun

I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Panic wouldn't help either of us. I had to stay calm, to think. There had to be a way out of this. I'd promised Senara I'd keep her safe, and by all the gods, I intended to keep that promise. I just had no idea how.

Another floor punch helped me keep the spiral of panic in check when it threatened to take over again. One wasn’t enough though so I hit the floor again and again until my knuckles turned bloody and my hands ached.

A shuffling sound drew me from my thoughts, making me paused mid floor strike. My eyes snapped in the direction of the sound, scanning the dim cell. There, in the corner, something moved.

I froze, hardly daring to breathe. It was the box—that same damned box I'd searched a dozen times over. Empty, save for a few scraps of rotting cloth. Yet now it shifted, ever so slightly.

"What in the hells?" I muttered, pushing myself up despite protesting muscles.

I'd combed every inch of this cell when they first threw me in here, desperate to find some way out, some way to prove to Senara that her faith in me wasn't misplaced. But there had been nothing. No cracks in the walls, no loose stones, no forgotten tools. Just four unyielding walls and that useless box.

I crept closer, my heart pounding. There were no vermin in this place—I hadn't seen so much as a spider in all my time here. So what was moving?

"Show yourself," I growled, trying to sound more confident than I felt. Without my magic and with my hands bound, I was painfully vulnerable. But I'd be damned if I'd let whatever this was catch me off guard.

Something shifted again, more deliberately this time. I tensed, ready to defend myself if necessary. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

The box suddenly slid to the side, revealing a hidden opening in the wall behind it. My jaw dropped as a young male elf, no more than twenty years old, emerged from the concealed tunnel. He moved with a fluid, confident grace that was a stark contrast to what one would expect given our surroundings, crawling out and standing up in one smooth motion.

"By the gods," I breathed, taking an involuntary step back. "Am I hallucinating?"

The boy—no, young man—brushed off his clothes and turned to face me. His eyes were bright and alert the opposite of the defeated looks I'd grown accustomed to seeing in this hellhole. He nodded at me, almost in greeting, but there was something of relief in his gaze as well.

As I watched, dumbfounded, he reached behind him and pushed the box back into place. The wall sealed seamlessly, as if it had never been disturbed.

"You're not hallucinating," he said, his voice low but clear though he kept his volume down. "Though I can understand why you might think so. I’m just glad you’re finally awake so I could get out of that crawl space."

I shook my head, trying to clear it. "Who are you? How did you?—"

But my words trailed off as I took in his appearance.

The young man's outfit was a dull gray, the standard shade for prisoners. It consisted of the same thing I had been given to wear, a sleeveless tunic of sorts with knee length trousers underneath in a matching color, the belt that the other man wore was the only difference between the two at a glance. Unless you looked closer.

His tunic, trousers, and belt were all immaculately clean, without a speck of dirt or tear in sight. The fabric looked almost new, with no fraying edges or fading color. It seemed almost too perfect, like a costume from a play rather than prison attire. It didn’t help that there was a faint scent of lavender and citrus coming from the young man's clothing, a smell that shouldn't exist in this musty, dank prison.

As though his clothing wasn’t enough, the honey-brown hair that fell in a straight ponytail down his back was entirely tangle free and much too clean. Not to mention the lack of dirt on his face other than a single smudge that looked like it had been placed there on purpose.

"This can't be real," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "I must have hit my head harder than I thought."

The young elf tilted his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I assure you, I'm quite real. And I believe we have much to discuss, Thorn." His eyes were the color of spring grass and danced with the eagerness of youth. A second later the young elf straightened, his demeanor shifting to something more formal. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Young Lord Echo, son of the High Lord and heir to the throne."

My jaw clenched involuntarily. The High Lord's son? Here? I eyed him warily, every instinct on high alert.

"I've come to speak with you about the blight and the corrupted fae," Echo continued, his voice steady.

"Why?" I asked, my tone harsher than I'd intended. "Come to gloat about your father's handiwork?"

Echo's expression shuttered slightly. "No, quite the opposite. I...I don't agree with my father's methods or his goals. My viewpoint differs significantly from his."

I scoffed. "Right. And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"I understand your skepticism," Echo said, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "I wouldn't trust me either, in your position."

"Smart kid," I muttered.

Echo's lips quirked in a half-smile. "Not a kid, actually. But I take your point." His hand moved to his waist, and I tensed, ready for anything.

Or so I thought.

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