Page 9 of Bound In Shadow

“Get up,” one guard snarls, his voice dripping with impatience. He’s not the same soldier who escorted me before. This man’s features are sharper, his hair pulled back in a severe knot at the crown of his head. Everything about him screams arrogance and disdain. “We have orders to present you for official judgment.”

I blink to clear my vision. There’s barely time to get my bearings. The room around me is cramped, with a single, guttering torch in a wall sconce. My memory kicks into gear: after Prince Xelith left me alone—tempting me with hints of a twisted alliance—someone must have moved me here, though I was too exhausted to register it.

My shoulder aches, my side throbs, and my cheeks burn with the grime of dried sweat and blood. I try to stand on my own, but my knees threaten to give. One guard tightens his grip to hold me steady, though his actions are anything but gentle. “Pathetic,” he spits.

I clench my teeth. “Watch your mouth.”

He responds by hauling me along without another word. I don’t have the strength to fight it, so I fix my gaze forward, determined not to show any more weakness than necessary. I’m still in the fortress—that much is obvious. The walls are the same polished black stone, etched with faint runic carvings that glow at intervals. Torches flicker, casting elongated shadows. The corridor seems to stretch forever.

My stomach twists. Official judgment. This has to be the public spectacle I’ve been dreading. The entire reason I waged this rebellion was to prevent more human bloodshed—and now here I am, about to be paraded in front of Dark Elf officials who crave my head on a platter.

The chain tugs painfully at my wrists as the guards force me into a stairwell. We descend, then take a sharp turn into a larger corridor. Doors line either side, and I glimpse uniformed elves sweeping through them with purposeful strides. Some carry scrolls, others are armed with slender swords. It’s a hive of activity, and I can almost taste the tension in the air.

I catch bits of hushed conversations as we pass:

“—the humans are in disarray. We should execute—” “—Prince Xelith has some plan, but the council—” “—the farmland yields can’t drop any lower?—”

None of it bodes well for me or my people.

The guards lead me to a set of tall double doors inscribed with swirling serpent motifs. They swing open at our approach, revealing a wide antechamber. The space is lit by chandeliers shaped like coiled serpents, each holding a cluster of mana-fueled lights. The glow bathes the floor in an eerie luminescence, creating serpentine shadows that glide over the polished stone.

A handful of Dark Elves stand waiting, dressed in finely tailored robes or armor inlaid with precious metals. I recognize none of them specifically, but their bearing marks them as individuals of influence—lesser officials or courtiers, perhaps. They watch me with open contempt. Whispers ripple through them as I’m dragged to the center of the chamber.

My guards wrench my arms behind my back, forcing me to bow my head. Heat floods my face—rage, shame, exhaustion. I want to spit at their feet, but I swallow the urge. Pride has to take a backseat to survival… at least for this moment.

“Lysandra Riven,” announces a female elf with sleek silver hair coiled in an elaborate arrangement. Her robes are embroidered with metallic threads that glint like spider silk in the chandelier’s light. She steps forward, posture regal. “You stand accused of inciting rebellion, attacking Pyrthos farmland, and shedding Dark Elf blood in the name of human insurrection.”

I lift my gaze, refusing to keep it pinned to the floor. “I stand for freedom. Something your kind might not understand.”

“Freedom,” she echoes, a cold curve to her lips. “We gave you farmland to work, sustenance to survive, and you repay us with violence. Typical human ingratitude.”

My blood boils. “Ingratitude?” My voice reverberates in the sudden hush. “You force us to break our backs in the fields while your overseers whip anyone who can’t keep pace. You call that generosity?”

She narrows her eyes, but before she can retort, another official speaks up—a dark-skinned elf with a gold signet ring flashing on his finger. “Your crimes are clear, and our laws demand swift justice. Typically, the penalty for such treason is death by public execution. Yet…” He glances at a parchmentin his hand, then flicks a condescending look my way. “Prince Xelith has intervened. He claims you for his personal holding.”

My heart jolts. “He… what?”

The female official crosses her arms. “It appears Prince Xelith has a vested interest in you. He insists that your life should be spared for now, pending additional interrogation or… strategic use.”

I taste bitterness on my tongue. Strategic use. I can guess what that means—some twisted scheme that benefits him or staves off the council’s wrath. He’s already dangled that possibility in front of me, but hearing it announced publicly, as though I’m property, makes my hands clench around the manacles.

“Are you telling me,” I say, voice low and trembling with anger, “that I’m to be his slave now?”

One of the elves snorts. “Slave, pet, prisoner—call it what you will. The details hardly matter.”

The weight of those words slams into me. I was braced for a formal execution, but this… The notion of being owned by a Dark Elf is almost worse. My vision blurs for a heartbeat, and I inhale slowly, focusing on controlling my reaction. If I lash out recklessly, these officials might override Xelith’s claim and kill me on the spot. And that would leave the rest of my people without any hope of rescue or negotiation.

“This arrangement,” the gold-ringed elf continues, “is provisional. Prince Xelith must produce results. If you fail to cooperate, or if your presence incites further chaos, the council will override his claim. You will be executed, along with any other humans who dare lift a hand against us.”

The ultimatum hangs in the air. My pulse pounds in my ears. I’m trapped in a no-win situation. Either I keep dancing to Xelith’s tune or lose my head—and condemn many others to death.

That vile official with the gold ring gestures for the guards to haul me forward. I’m forced to stand in the center of a raised platform, as if I’m on display. The room’s occupants form a semicircle around me, their eyes gleaming with perverse fascination.

The female elf steps close, enough that I catch the faint scent of lavender perfume clinging to her robes. “The arrangement is simple,” she says crisply. “Prince Xelith claims you. In return, he ensures your compliance. If he fails, you die.”

A murmur of agreement goes through the assembly. I feel an overwhelming urge to shout curses, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I glare at the official. “I see you’re all too cowardly to kill me yourselves.”

Her lips twist in a sneer. “We spare you for one reason only: to serve our prince’s aims. Should you disappoint him, I assure you, there are plenty among us who’d relish your public execution.”

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