Page 7 of Eluvonia
My body moves before I can stop it, stepping forward again. “We need to—”
“Enough,” my father snaps, finally looking at me. His eyes bore into mine, filled with something heavy and unyielding. “This is not your place, Aeris. Get out.”
The finality in his voice slams into me like a door locking shut.
Heat surges up my spine, burning under my skin. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches, my breath shaking with the effort to hold back the words I want to spit at him.
But it wouldn’t matter. It never does.
I’m always the afterthought, the one left standing in the shadow of decisions made without me. It gnaws at something deep inside, a bitter ache that never quite fades. I should be used to it by now—the way he brushes past me, the way my voice never seems to carry enough weight. But tonight, the sting feels sharper, like a fresh wound torn open again.
Without another word, I spin on my heel and stalk out of the war room, my bare feet scuffing against the cold stone. My vision tunnels as I weave through the familiar passageways, each turn memorized from years of wandering these caves. No one calls after me. No one stops me.
Why would they? I’m not essential. I never have been.
My fingers trail against the rough stone, nails scraping against the jagged surface. The sharp bite of pain is grounding. Real. Unlike the illusion of control I keep clinging to, the belief that maybe—just maybe—one day, I won’t be the one left behind.
The tunnel narrows as I duck beneath an outcrop of rock—a spot I’ve hit my head on too many times to count. A few more steps, and I slip into a small side chamber. My chamber. My sanctuary.
The space isn’t much, but it’s mine. The walls press in close, the air heavy with the scent of earth, stone, and the faint traces of smoke that never fully fade from the tunnels. It should feel suffocating. Instead, it feels like an embrace—one of the few places where I can simply exist.
My bed, a lumpy collection of dried leaves and cloth scraps, waits in the corner. I drop onto it with a soft grunt, crossing my legs and stretching my arms overhead until my shoulders pop. “Another day in paradise, maybe a nap will make me feel better,” I mumble to myself, rubbing the back of my neck.
I unstrap my bow from my back, laying it across my lap. My fingers glide over the wood, checking for cracks or warping. With practiced ease, I take a small cloth from a nearby crate and begin rubbing down the limbs, ensuring no moisture has seeped into the grain.
The rhythmic motion steadies me, grounding me insomething tangible.
Reaching for a tin of bowstring wax, I pinch a bit between my fingers, rolling it until it softens before smoothing it over the string in slow, deliberate strokes. The scent of resin and oil fills the air, familiar and comforting. I test the tension, drawing the string back just enough to feel its resistance. It holds firm.
A small, satisfied smirk tugs at my lips. “Still got it,” I murmur under my breath.
Next, I inspect my arrows, lifting each one to the dim light filtering in from the tunnel. My fingers trace the wooden shafts, searching for imperfections. The fletching on a few is bent, the feathers frayed at the edges. I smooth them down as best I can, making a mental note to replace them soon.
When I reach the tips, I test one against my fingertip. A sharp sting follows, a bead of blood welling up. I hiss softly, shaking my hand before pressing the cut to my lips. “Yup, that’s sharp,” I mutter. At least something around here is.
Satisfied, I unstring my bow, setting it and the quiver within arm’s reach before collapsing onto my bed. My blanket—a patchwork of scavenged fabrics stitched together over the years—scratches against my skin as I pull it over me. It’s rough, worn, but warm.
My eyes drift to the jagged ceiling, tracing the faint mineral streaks in the rock. The patterns blur together, shifting and twisting, much like the thoughts tumbling through my head.
I don’t belong.
The realization settles like a stone in my chest, heavy and suffocating. No one needs me. No one waits for me. I exist in the spaces between their lives, a passing figure, acknowledged but never truly seen. I try—Ihavetried—to carve out a placefor myself, to prove that I am more than just a name spoken in passing. But no matter how hard I push, I remain on the outskirts, always looking in.
My fingers toy with a loose thread on the blanket, pulling and twisting absentmindedly. My mind drifts, searching for an escape.
For a brief, reckless moment, I consider sneaking out. The woods call to me, whispering promises of quiet and freedom, of crisp air and open skies.Out there, the weight of loneliness, of being unwanted, wouldn’t press so heavily on my chest.
But even the thought of freedom feels distant, unreachable. The exhaustion in my limbs isn’t just physical—it’s deeper than that, woven into my very being.
So I stay. Rooted in place. Trapped between wanting to be part of something and knowing, deep down, that I never truly will be.
Instead, I let the chamber’s silence pull me under.
Sleep takes me in its grip, and in my dreams, there is only fire.
I wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding like a war drum. Flames flicker at the edges of my mind—dark, curling smoke, the scent of burning, the sound of something massive stirring in the shadows.
A nightmare. Just a nightmare.
