Page 18 of Taken By The Dark Three
We step through the doors into a wide training arena with a sand-covered floor. Racks of weapons line the walls—spears, swords, staves etched with runes. Dark elf warriors move in disciplined formations, practicing strikes under the watchful eye of instructors. Torches set high overhead cast a bright glow across the ring, illuminating every grain of sand.
My gaze drifts over the group of onlookers who gather at one side. Some wear high-caste attire with house emblems. Others appear to be officers or strategists. Their expressions range from bored curiosity to predatory interest. I stand alone with Vaelith, tension coiling in my belly.
He meets my eyes. “Show them your skill with a blade or staff. Prove you’re worth keeping alive. But if you try to escape or harm the watchers, the wards will activate, and you’ll regret it.”
I roll my shoulders, ignoring the aches. “I can handle your demonstration.” My voice is laced with scorn. “Though I won’t dance on command like a pet.”
A faint smirk touches his lips. “No one expects you to dance. Just fight.”
He gestures to a weapon rack. I stride forward, scanning the options: swords, daggers, a short staff, each inscribed with minor runic embellishments. I pick a slender blade that looks balanced enough. The metal is dark, shimmering with arcane forging. It fits nicely in my grip.
A younger dark elf soldier steps into the ring, twirling a curved sword. He offers a mocking bow, confident in his advantage. An instructor stands aside, calling out, “Begin!”
The soldier lunges. I shift my stance, letting muscle memory guide me. The sword in my hand glides up, deflecting his blow with a shower of sparks. He’s fast, but his technique is formal, reliant on Orthani’s standard moves. I adapt, weaving around him, letting the anger and frustration pent inside me feed my reflexes.
Within moments, I slip under his guard and tap the flat of my blade against his side. He staggers, eyes widening. The watchers murmur. A second flurry of movement follows as he attempts a more reckless assault. My sword meets his with a metallic ring. I pivot behind him, spinning in close. A final parry sends his weapon tumbling from his hands. The tip of my blade rests at his throat.
He surrenders, panting, confusion etched on his face. I drop my sword hand, stepping back. Some onlookers clap politely. Others remain silent, measuring me. My breath comes in short bursts, but adrenaline hums in my veins, momentarily eclipsing my exhaustion.
The instructor motions for the soldier to retrieve his sword. He does so, shooting me a glare before withdrawing. Vaelith crosses his arms from the sidelines. “Good. Again.”
Another soldier steps forward, older with a heavier sword. He’s bulkier, likely stronger, but possibly less agile. I face him, heart pounding. We clash, steel flashing in arcs. Each time he tries to bulldoze me with raw strength, I slip to the side. He’scunning, though, feinting high then slashing low. I barely dodge in time, feeling a whoosh of air near my legs. I counter with a downward strike, hooking his blade away. Before he can recover, I thrust the hilt against his jaw, sending him reeling. He lands hard on the sand, spitting out blood.
More watchers begin to take notice, whispering among themselves. I taste a grim satisfaction. If they wanted a show, I’ll give them one. Vaelith nods to the instructor again, but the older soldier staggers upright, shaking his head. He waves off the next challenger, not wanting to concede defeat without a final stand. Pride glints in his eyes.
“All right, purna,” he growls, lunging with renewed fury.
We trade a series of strikes that ring in the air. My arms protest the strain, reminding me of my battered body, but I push through. Heat builds under my skin. On his next overhead swing, I sidestep and deliver a swift kick to the back of his knee. He collapses forward, and I slide my blade across his neck in a deliberate, unhurried motion, stopping just short of breaking skin. The entire arena goes quiet.
He gasps for breath. I step back, letting him collapse onto his palms in the sand. Some claps resonate from the watchers, now thoroughly intrigued. Vaelith appears near the ring’s edge, arms still folded, face impassive. But I notice a spark in his eyes—approval, or perhaps fascination.
The older soldier pushes himself upright, coughing. “Enough.” He shoots me a look that’s half rage, half respect, then trudges away.
I stand in the center, sword still raised, sweat dripping down my temples. My chest heaves from the exertion. I glance at Vaelith, a challenge in my gaze. He steps forward, tilting his head. “Impressive.” His voice carries to the watchers. “Our new recruit shows skill. Perhaps she can be shaped into a weapon for Orthani.”
I grip the blade tighter. “I’m no one’s weapon.”
He arches a brow. “We’ll see.”
The watchers start to disperse, some scribbling notes on scrolls, others nodding among themselves. The air crackles with renewed tension. I look back at Vaelith, letting my frustration show. “That’s it? You parade me around to slash up your men, then send me back to a cell?”
He shrugs. “You’ve proven you can fight. This demonstration might grant you less restrictive quarters.” He gestures for me to lower my weapon. A guard steps over, reaching to collect it. I release the hilt, ignoring the dryness in my mouth.
Vaelith motions for the guard to stay back, then leans in close, voice low enough that only I hear. “You’ve earned a sliver of trust, Selene. But remember, your hold on life is precarious.” His warm breath grazes my cheek. “Behave, and maybe we’ll allow you glimpses of the child. Resist… and you both suffer.”
Rage flares hot in my veins. My fist tightens at my side, but I hold back the urge to strike. Attacking him now would be suicide. Still, I let him see the smolder in my eyes. “If anything happens to her, I will make Orthani regret it.”
He nods, stepping away. For a moment, his expression flickers with something like regret, but it’s gone in a heartbeat. “Come with me,” he orders.
I follow him through a side exit, flanked by guards. My body aches from the fights, but a grim sense of satisfaction settles in my chest. I showed them I’m no feeble captive. They want to shape me into a lethal extension of Orthani. Perhaps I can use that to my advantage.
We wind through corridors that become increasingly opulent—deep purple carpets, gilded sconces, tall arched ceilings. This is the level of Orthani’s fortress reserved for mid-tier officers or favored subordinates. Vaelith stops at a door bearing a simple crest of crossed swords. He pushes it open, revealing amodest suite: a single bed draped in dark linens, a small desk, and an arrow-slit window offering a glimpse of the city’s outer ramparts.
“This will be your room for now,” Vaelith says. “It’s warded. You can’t cast major spells here. But it’s more comfortable than the cell.”
I step inside, scanning the furniture. It’s definitely an upgrade from the freezing storeroom. A large iron ring is set into the wall—likely used to leash a prisoner if needed. Lovely. A half-lidded lantern flickers on a side table, giving off a soft, amber glow.
“Why the change of heart?” I ask, turning to face him.
