Page 3 of Illicit Bargain

"Keep telling yourself that," I reply, voice dripping with mockery. "Maybe one day it'll be true."

The first one, still holding the dagger, narrows his eyes. "Why don't we just kill him and be done with it?"

The one with the scar shakes his head, pocketing the vial full of my blood. "No, we need him alive. Lord Valron wants his blood for the ritual."

"Ah, Valron," I say, smirking. "Still trying to play sorcerer, is he? Tell him he's wasting his time."

"You talk too much," he spits, slashing at my chest. Blood trickles down, but I keep my eyes locked on his, unfazed by the pain.

"And you bore me," I retort, my voice laced with contempt. "Maybe I should start charging for my performances. At least then I'd get something out of this tedious charade."

They don't like me saying this. The stocky one hits me across the face, the impact making my head snap to the side, a sharp pain blooming where his fist connected. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth, almost refreshing in this dreary place.

"You're going to regret this," he hisses, his voice dripping with malice.

I laugh, a deep, resonant sound that reverberates through the dungeon's stone walls. "No," I say, my voice steady and mocking. "I think you'll regret it first." My eyes lock onto his, promising a retribution he can't even begin to fathom.

They exchange uneasy glances. They can sense it, the power simmering just beneath my skin. But they don't know. They can't comprehend.

I scoff internally.These flimsy chains? They couldn't hold a child, let alone me.

The metal grates against my wrists, but it's nothing more than an inconvenience.

Suddenly, the small group watches in terror as one of their own yells out in agony.

One of the dark elves drops to the ground, his body contorting in a grotesque dance of terror. His screams pierce the dungeon, a symphony of fear that sends shivers down my spine—not of horror, but of pleasure. My eyes glow, the power within me surging as I feed his mind his worst nightmares.

His comrades back away, their faces twisted in horror and disbelief. They exchange frantic looks, unsure whether to help or flee. The chains rattle against my wrists as I shift slightly, barely able to contain my amusement. The dark elves were fools to think they could control me. Each scream, each gasp of terror, is a testament to their failure.

"You thought you could break me," I murmur, my voice dripping with contempt. "But it is you who will be broken."

"What's happening to him?" one of the soldiers shouts, his voice cracking.

The stocky one steps forward, eyes wide with panic as he points at me with a shaky finger. "You did this! What are you?"

"I'm a demon, you fool," I say, my voice dripping with irritation. Although I take a dark elf form, my true nature is foreign to this world.

They rush me, weapons drawn, trying to hurt what they can't even begin to understand. Blades slash at my flesh, but I just laugh. Their attacks are like taura bites—annoying but ultimately harmless.

"Stop laughing!" the one with the scar yells, his voice desperate.

"Why? This is the most fun I've had in centuries," I reply, my laughter echoing off the stone walls. As they pierce my skin, drawing blood that oozes down my chest, I laugh and laugh until the dark elves fall to their knees in tears.

The fools. They will never understand.

3

CATANDRIA

The dark elves leave me crumpled on the ground, every part of me screaming in pain. My face is swollen, my ribs ache with each breath, and blood seeps from cuts and bruises. I can't even cry anymore; my body is too exhausted. Hatred fills my heart, a burning desire for revenge that keeps me moving.

I can’t let them stop me. I’ve got to find Fira.

I drag my weary body back to our tiny tent. Each step is agony, but I push through it. My friend, Fira, lies on her pallet, unmoving. Her usually vibrant eyes are closed, and her face is pale and still.

"Fira?" I whisper, my voice hoarse. "Fira, wake up."

She doesn't respond. I kneel beside her, shaking her gently, then more forcefully. Still nothing. I press my fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse, but find only cold skin.

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