Page 24 of Taken By The Dark Three
The carriage rounds a corner, passing beneath a sprawling stone archway. A well-guarded gate looms ahead, marking the transition into a wealthier quarter of the city. The ornamental carvings on the gate depict Orthani’s conquests: dwarven strongholds ravaged, mythical beasts tamed, humans enslaved. My anger simmers anew at the sight.
We reach an imposing estate. High walls ring the perimeter, patrolled by stern-faced guards. The iron gates swing open, revealing a courtyard paved in polished black stone. A fountain shaped like a coiled serpent spews water tinted purple by subtle enchantments. The carriage halts. Vaelith disembarks first, then offers a silent gesture for me to follow.
“You’ll live here,” he says, motioning at the sprawling mansion. “You have a room in the west wing. Guards patrol day and night. Don’t test them.”
I step from the carriage onto the courtyard, resisting the urge to spit on his pristine cobblestones. The estate stands three stories tall, each level with arched windows. Banners bearing Vaelith’s family crest—crossed swords over a serpent’s eye—hang from balconies. It feels suffocating, but I hide my revulsion behind a mask of indifference.
Inside, the entry hall is less gaudy than Zareth’s suite, but still polished. Suits of dark elven armor line the walls, each bearing the scars of war. Vaelith leads me through a corridor lit by subdued blue lanterns, passing occasional servants who avert their eyes. They know better than to stare at their commander’s prize.
We ascend a curved staircase to the second floor, where he opens a door into a modest chamber. A single bed draped in dark linen, a wardrobe, a small table, and a shuttered window looking out over the courtyard. There’s also a washbasin in the corner. Not luxurious, but better than a cell. My gaze flicks to the thick wooden door. A heavy lock is set on the outside, presumably for if they want me locked in.
Vaelith steps aside, letting me enter first. I feel his watchful presence behind me, like a storm cloud ready to rumble if I cross a line. When I turn, our eyes lock in the semidarkness, the only light coming from a single lamp on the table. Sparks of tension swirl in the still air, an electric hum that neither of us acknowledges.
“This is your space,” he says quietly. “You’ll be escorted to the training grounds each morning. Meals will be brought if you don’t dine with my officers. Any attempt to break out triggers the wards. Understood?”
My shoulders tense. “Understood.”
He exhales. “I’ll allow you time to settle. But remember, I hold the council’s mandate. Don’t force my hand.”
A searing defiance flares inside me. “If you’re expecting gratitude, you won’t get it. I’m still a prisoner.”
A flicker of something passes over his face. Disappointment? Irritation? Hard to read. “I expect you to follow orders. Otherwise, Zareth will be the least of your worries.” He steps back, about to leave, then pauses. “You fight like you have nothing to lose, Selene. Be sure that’s true, or you’ll hurt those you care about more than you realize.”
A chill ripples down my spine at the veiled reference to Ai. I say nothing, forcing my expression to remain flinty. With one last look, Vaelith slips out the door, closing it behind him. I stand in the quiet, heart pounding.
I inspect the room, noting the window’s angle—too narrow for me to slip through. The washbasin’s water is fresh, a small mercy. A single candle sits on the table, unlit. I spark a fraction of my magic, ignoring how the wards prickle against my power, and ignite the candle with a tiny flame. A sense of small victory blooms in my chest. At least they haven’t muzzled me entirely.
Sinking onto the bed, a shaky exhale escapes my lips. My mind races with the day’s events: the court ceremony, Vaelith’s claim, Zareth’s lingering stare. The entire ordeal leaves me feeling hollow, but I refuse to break. My thoughts turn to Ai, locked away in the fortress’s lower cells, a child caught in these monstrous games. And there’s Eryx, claiming the Red Purna orchestrated this trap. He said he’d keep in contact, find a way to free me from the wards. I can’t trust him fully, but his presence hints that not all hope is lost.
I recall the swirl of tension between Vaelith and Zareth when they argued over me, like two beasts fighting over a prime kill. Despite hating them both, a strange part of me relishes that I’ve unsettled these proud elves. Their city thrives on domination, yet I’m no meek toy. I draw strength from that.
My gaze drifts to a mirror on the wall—simple, no gaudy frame. In the faint candlelight, I see the bruises along my neck and arms, remnants of past interrogations. My eyes reflect a tired ferocity that no cell, no chain, can extinguish. Though Orthani’s wards weigh on me, my magic still simmers, waiting for a chance to strike.
I move to the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. The courtyard below is dim, patrolled by a few sentries with glowing staves. Beyond the estate walls, Orthani’s spires loom, sharp silhouettes against a swirling night sky. The city feels alive with secrets and manipulations—Vaelith’s discipline, Zareth’s sadistic psionics, Eryx’s half alliance, and the Red Purna’s hidden agendas. I stand in the heart of it all, forced into “service” that will test my resilience at every turn.
Yet even caged, I plot. I vow to subvert them from within, to seize any opening that leads me closer to Ai, to undermine Orthani’s cruelty. The tension of the day still buzzes in my veins, a restless charge that won’t let me sleep. My thoughts stray to the electrified moment in the court chamber, when Vaelith placed his claim. Zareth’s voice had dripped with jealous fury. I can twist that rivalry, use it to my advantage. Let them try to own me; I’ll set them on a collision course.
I snuff the candle, sinking the room back into half-darkness. The wards hum softly, a faint ring of pressure that clings to my senses. Slowly, I allow myself to lie down on the bed, eyes wide open. My mind conjures potential strategies. If I perform well in training, Vaelith might loosen the reins. If Eryx is as cunning as he claims, he might secure a key to the runic constraints. My path forward is fragile, but I cling to every thread of possibility.
An image of Ai’s tiny face drifts through my thoughts, the tremor in her voice as she whispered cryptic warnings about the Red Purna’s betrayal. I ball my hands into fists, promising I won’t let her vanish into Orthani’s dungeons. She deserves afuture free from nightmares. That’s the sole reason I haven’t burned this city to ashes at the first opportunity.
The wind outside rattles the shutters. My eyes slip closed, though my mind refuses to quiet. I can practically feel Vaelith prowling beyond that door, checking on guards, ensuring I’m secure. And I imagine Zareth fuming in his tower, plotting new ways to wrest me from Vaelith’s hold. Let them circle. Let them tear each other apart for a chance to use me. In the end, I’ll watch them kneel.
Sleep pulls at the corners of my consciousness. Before I succumb, I whisper a silent oath to the darkness: I will endure this twisted “service,” sharpen my sword, and bide my time. Once the moment strikes, I’ll rip down these wards, free Ai, and let Orthani taste the raw fury they’ve tried so hard to tame. Because I am Selene Varess, purna of Protheka, and I bow to no one.
8
VAELITH
I’m standing at the threshold of my estate, watching as two guards escort Selene from the carriage. She emerges with her spine rigid, every breath of hers defiant. The day’s events have carved tension into the air, and I sense the hushed curiosity of my staff, all pretending not to stare at the newest occupant. The courtyard’s ornate fountain gurgles under the moonlight, but no one stops to admire it. Everyone is focused on the woman standing in chains, who refuses to bow.
I motion for the guards to move aside so I can address her directly. She stands just within the gates, skin catching the faint glow of enchantment-lamps. Her dark hair frames a face that brims with unspoken daring. She’s not subdued by the pomp of Orthani’s court or by the knowledge that her life depends on my favor. In her stare, I see that unrelenting challenge. Even now, after the humiliating parade in front of the council, she won’t play the role of obedient captive.
“Come,” I say, gesturing toward the door leading into the main hall. My tone is clipped, leaving no room for argument.
She presses her lips together and complies with a single step, though she doesn’t hide the flash of resentment in her eyes.The iron chain at her wrists rattles softly, the only sign of her enforced captivity. I nod at the guards to release the latch on her cuffs. They obey, and the chain drops away with a dull clank. She lifts her wrists, rubbing faint red marks where the metal pressed her skin.
“Shall I thank you for that?” she mutters, voice low.
