Page 59 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
ROVAX
The night is still when it happens.
I’m at the window in Skylar’s dorm room, watching the lamplight spill across the quiet paths below, when the air above the campussplits.
Not just a flash — not lightning. This is wrong. The sky tears open like it’s made of fabric, and the wound blooms outward in violent streaks of purple fire. The light claws at the clouds, warping the air, humming so deep I feel it in my bones.
I know that hum.
I’d know it in my sleep.
“Rovax?” Skylar’s voice is behind me, uncertain.
It’s all I can do to keep my voice steady. “Stay here.”
The signature is unmistakable. This isn’t some wandering gate. This is abreach— deliberate, forced. And it’s big enough to drag an army through without hiding. The arrogance in that makes my blood run hot. Whoever opened it doesn’t care if every human on this pathetic planet sees.
I’m already moving, boots hammering against the stairs before she can ask again. She calls after me — sharp, angry — but her voice fades as I hit the cold night air.
The wind tastes electric, charged with the tang of metal and magic. It drags at my coat as I sprint across the quad, the purple light painting everything in an unholy glow. Students are starting to gather at windows, some spilling outside with their phones raised. They have no idea what they’re watching.
I cut through the science building’s shadow, my eyes fixed on the epicenter. The light convulses once — and then they step through.
Obsidian armor. Blades forged from blacksteel, thrumming with residual portal-energy. Their movements are crisp, disciplined, each step sinking into the earth with deliberate weight. There’s no mistaking the formation: this is a war column, not a scouting party.
And then I seehim.
The front rank splits, and a towering figure steps forward. My lungs seize before I can stop them.
Razarak.
Even at a distance, his presence drags the air tighter, heavier. His armor is older than most of the warriors here, carved with runes I know by heart — my family’s. The horned crest on his helm gleams under the sick light, and when he removes it, the face beneath is exactly as I remember.
Sharp angles cut from dark stone, eyes the same red as mine — but colder, harder. His hair is silver now, pulled back in the same warrior’s braid he’s worn since I was a child.
He looks… older. But not weaker. Never that.
I stop at the edge of the clearing, heart pounding hard enough to rattle my teeth. The years fall away in an instant — years of exile, of telling myself I’d never see him again.
His gaze finds me immediately.
For a moment, neither of us moves. It’s absurd — there’s a dozen warriors between us, the ground humming with thedying pulse of the portal, and still it feels like we’re standing on opposite ends of the dueling ring again.
“Rovax,” he says.
His voice hasn’t changed. Low, resonant, with that edge that makes lesser men stand straighter without realizing.
“Father.” The word tastes strange on my tongue, sharp and bitter.
He takes a step forward, and the warriors around him shift subtly, angling their bodies toward me. Not quite threatening — not yet — but ready. Always ready.
“You’ve grown,” he says. “Stronger. I expected… less.”
It’s the closest thing to praise I’ve ever gotten from him. And it’s bait. I feel the hook in it even as the old part of me — the boy who trained until his hands bled for a nod of approval — wants to take it.
Instead, I straighten, matching his posture. “And I expected you to stay on your side of the rift.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Amusement? Disappointment? I can never tell.
