Page 1 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
CHAPTER 1
ROVAX
The sea wind slinks in through the open shutters, carrying the tang of brine and the sour-sweet stench of rotting kelp from the docks. It mingles with the reek of spiced rum, woodsmoke, and the greasy smoke curling off some overcooked haunch of meat turning on a spit nearby. Vhoig’s most infamous tavern, The Broken Fang, is alive tonight — all roaring laughter, sloshing mugs, and the wet slap of dice cups on scarred wood. I’ve heard the place called a den of drink and debauchery, but that’s far too polite. It’s a pit — my kind of pit.
I’m sprawled in my chair at our private table, one boot hooked lazily on the rung, a heavy goblet dangling from my fingers. The black-and-crimson silks of my house catch the flicker of torchlight like the spill of fresh blood. My companions — a tangle of fellow nobles, half-soused mercenaries, and the occasional hanger-on desperate enough to laugh at anything I say — are already deep into the evening’s entertainment: wagers of escalating stupidity.
“I’ll give you ten gold to drink it straight from the barrel,” says Voras, leaning so far across the table his chain of office clinks against the wood.
“Pfft. Ten? I’d do it for two just to watch you choke on your own surprise,” slurs Kaedra, her eyes unfocused but her smirk razor-sharp.
I toss a coin onto the pile and point at the barrel in question. “Make it worth my time, and I’ll drink it until your heirs are paying my funeral costs.”
That gets a round of raucous laughter. I like the sound — it settles into my bones like a song I’ve heard all my life. The kind of song that says I’m in my element: center of the room, center of attention, and several drinks ahead of anyone who might challenge me.
The rum here is thick, spiced until it burns all the way down, sweet enough to make you forget you’re swallowing fire. I knock back what’s left in my goblet and slam it down, the clang ringing through the table. Somewhere across the room, a fight breaks out — the good kind, all shouts and the crash of furniture — and the crowd surges to watch. The smell of sweat and blood snakes in through the haze.
That’s when I see him.
A figure in a robe the color of midnight sludge, slipping between tables with the patient inevitability of a tide. The torchlight catches the glint of something metallic at his belt, then the pale gleam of eyes sunk deep under the hood. He doesn’t look at anyone else — doesn’t need to. He’s here for me.
My lip curls even before I’ve thought about it. “Oh, for all thirteen’s festering asses,” I mutter, loud enough for my table to hear. Kaedra snorts ale through her nose.
Voras leans in. “You going to behave this time?”
“Absolutely not.”
The robed priest stops beside our table, his shadow spilling across the coins, dice, and puddles of rum. The room’s noise dims in my head, like someone’s pulled a blanket over it, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of silence.
“Priest,” I greet, letting the word drip contempt. “Here to count how many sins fit on the head of your overinflated ego?”
“You speak boldly for someone so… diminished by drink.”
I lean back, spreading my arms so the silks slide open just enough to show the runes etched along my forearms. “And yet, I speak better drunk than you do sober. Or are you here to bore us into penance?”
The table snickers. One of the hangers-on tries to hide it, but fails. The priest’s gaze shifts to him for a moment, and the man goes still, as if frozen in place. I know that trick — I’ve used it myself.
“I’ve heard,” the priest says slowly, “that you have a particular… gift… for disrespect. A talent you’ve honed at my expense more than once.”
I grin. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I insult everyone equally. It’s one of my better qualities.”
Kaedra laughs outright, clutching her side. “Tell him about the time you?—”
“Kaedra,” I say, holding up a hand without looking away from the priest, “don’t ruin the moment. I’m just about to get to the part where he leaves in a huff.”
The priest tilts his head, and for a moment, I think I see the faint glimmer of teeth under the hood. But it’s his eyes — gods, his eyes — that catch me. They flash with something I know too well: the dangerous satisfaction of someone who’s just been handed the excuse they’ve been waiting for.
And that’s when I know the night’s about to turn.
“Don’t,” Voras hisses, fingers clamping my sleeve. “You’ve already poked the nest.”
“I don’t poke,” I say, prying him off with two lazy fingers. “I stir.”
Kaedra leans across the table, voice low. “Rovax, his kind keep ledgers. You’re already in debt.”
“I’m always in debt,” I say, standing. The floor tilts pleasantly and then rights itself like a ship deciding it will not drown tonight. “To boredom.”
The priest doesn’t move as I rise; only those eyes follow me, bright as fish scales in deep water. I tip my goblet at him in a salute full of disrespect, drain the last burning finger of rum, and set the cup down with a soft, decisive clack.
