5. Emilia

5

EMILIA

" G et up."

"Hm?" I mumble, eyes still closed and body still aching for sleep. I hardly know what's going on before someone roughly grabs my right arm and yanks me out of bed. "What--"

"Get up!"

Looking up with wide eyes, Aleryn looms over me with a fierce expression, scowling down at me as if I'm the lowest creature on Tlouz. And to him, maybe I am.

In my peripheral vision, I notice Fatima and Delia cowering underneath their thin blankets. Deep down, I wish they could help me, but speaking up would only give them a backhanded slap across the face from Aleryn.

"Get dressed. Now," he demands, staring at me with narrowed eyes. His head snaps towards Fatima and Delia. "And what are you two gawking at? Want your eyes removed?"

Quickly, Fatima and Delia turn their backs towards us. Meanwhile, I scramble for the nearest torn scraps that I call a dress. Worn, stained, and utterly pitiful, but it's good enough for now.

"Fucking humans," he mumbles. "Can never do anything right."

His voice slices through the dim morning like a blade, and I can't help but shiver as I fumble with the tattered fabric of my dress. Aleryn paces the room, his heavy boots thudding ominously against the wooden floor. Each step sounds like a countdown, each breath I take feels heavier, laden with dread.

As I straighten the worn fabric over my shoulders, my stomach churns with the realization that today is no ordinary day. Today, Aleryn's team, the Nightswords, face off against the formidable Bloodcrusher orcs. It's not just the violence of the match that frightens me, it's the stakes involved — stakes that could alter my very existence.

Aleryn pauses in his pacing and turns abruptly to face me, his gaze cutting sharply through the dim lighting of the room. "Are you ready yet?" he snaps, his voice laced with a venom that makes my skin crawl.

I nod, avoiding his eyes, feeling the weight of his stare like chains around my neck. "Yes," I manage to whisper, my voice barely breaking the heavy air between us.

"Good." His reply is curt, and he resumes his pacing, each step echoing ominously around the room. The walls seem to close in on me, the air thick with the scent of his impatience.

Fatima and Delia are no longer staring at me, but I can sense their fear from where I stand. We are all trapped in this nightmare, yet my role today feels singularly catastrophic. The horror of it grips me tightly.

The uncertainty is the worst part. Each scenario plays out in my mind like a loop of torment. What if Aleryn loses? I'd be handed over to the orcs, torn from the twisted familiarity of this misery into another, unknown and potentially more brutal.

"Remember, you're mine until you're not," Aleryn's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, cruel and cold. "Make sure you're seen at the match. Those orcs are primitive. Seeing a human woman might distract them, which is better for my team."

His words are a slap, harsh and stinging. I feel nauseous, the room spinning slightly as I try to steady myself on the wooden chair near the bed. Today's match isn't just a game; it's a showcase, and I am part of the spectacle.

Shock freezes me in place as Aleryn's words slice through the room, each syllable a cold shock against my skin. "It's an honor, Emilia," he declares with a smug grin that doesn't reach his cold, dark eyes. My heart stutters, the reality of his announcement settling like a lead weight in my stomach. I am to be wagered in today's match—a prize for the brutal game of zyrphix, tossed into the bet as casually as one might throw a coin.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls inching closer as if to bear witness to the moment my fate is sealed.

"We can't lose now, not with such high stakes. You will bring us luck," Aleryn continues, his voice a confident, cruel purr. His arrogance is palpable, the air thick with it, and it makes my skin crawl.

How can he stand there, so assured, so utterly untroubled by the gravity of what he's just pronounced? To him, this is nothing more than a strategic move, a way to motivate his team, the Nightswords, by raising the stakes to a grotesque level. But to me, it is the potential end of everything familiar, a terrifying leap into an unknown so dark, so full of potential violence and despair, that I can barely breathe.

"But why me?" The question escapes my lips before I can stop it, a whisper of fear, a flicker of anger. I need him to articulate it, to spell out his cruelty, to confirm that this is not just a terrible misunderstanding.

Aleryn's smirk widens, his gaze assessing as he steps closer. "Because, Emilia, you are valuable. Your presence in the bet will inspire the Nightswords to fight harder, to ensure they claim their prize. You are not just a person; you are a symbol of victory."

His explanation, meant to reassure, only deepens the horror. I am reduced to a token, an object, a mere symbol in his eyes. The room tilts, and I suddenly feel as if the room is spinning around me. Somehow, I keep myself steady in front of his cold gaze.

If I show any sign of weakness in front of Aleryn, he'll beat me for that.

The notion that my life might change hands based on the outcome of a game, that my future rests on the brutal game that leaves so many athletes, dark elves and orcs alike, gravely injured by its end, is overwhelming. Panic claws at my throat, and I struggle to find my voice. "And if you lose?" I manage, my voice a choked whisper, dreading his answer.

Aleryn's expression hardens, the playful cruelty shifting into something darker. "Then you serve the victors. But fear not, Emilia. We will not lose. We never do. I have the utmost faith in my team. Don't you?"

"I…" Swallowing thickly, I nod. "Yes, Master Aleryn. I do.

Each word is a nail in the coffin of my hope, sealing a fate I am powerless to escape. The casual dismissal of my fear, the readiness with which he stakes my life on the prowess of his warriors—it's a clear testament to his dark nature, his complete detachment from any sense of humanity or compassion.

Silent and trembling, I stand before the small mirror hanging precariously on the wall above my bed. My fingers, numb and awkward, fumble with the strands of my auburn hair, each movement disjointed as I mechanically weave them into a braid. I focus on the simple act, trying to find solace in the rhythm, the over and under. But the normalcy of the gesture mocks me, a stark contrast to the chaos threatening to erupt within.

I glance at my reflection, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. My face is pale, the usual freckles across my nose and cheeks stark against my skin, eyes wide and haunted. This can't be happening. Yet, the heavy truth sits on my chest, making it hard to breathe.

Pleading my case seems utterly futile. Aleryn's decision is final, his mind as closed as the heavy door that separates my quarters from the rest of the mansion. I swallow hard, stifling the desperate urge to scream, to beg him to reconsider, to see me as a person rather than a prize to be won or lost.

The room feels colder now, the shadows deeper. I wrap my arms around myself, the braid half-finished, the ends of my hair tickling my arms. It's as if the temperature has dropped in response to my sinking heart. I should be used to his cruel whims, his unpredictable nature, but this—it's a new low, even for Aleryn.

I try to think, to plan, to prepare myself for any outcome, but my mind whirls with too many thoughts, too many fears. The sound of my own heart beating feels like a drum in my ears, echoing the impending doom.

Finally, I finish the braid, securing it with a small, plain tie. The simplicity of the tie feels like a resignation, a signal of my dwindling hopes. I turn around slowly, steadying myself. I'm ready to face my fate, even if my eyes still glimmer with unshed tears.

Aleryn's voice cuts sharply through the stagnant air, snapping me from my reverie. "Come, Emilia. It's time." His command is harsh, brooking no argument. With a swish of his dark cloak, he turns and strides from the room, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that echoes in my hollow chest.

I hesitate, my body tensed against the reality of what's coming. Each second I delay feels like a small rebellion, a fleeting grasp at control. But the choice isn't mine to make. With a heavy sigh, I force my legs to move, my feet dragging across the cold stone floor. The air in the corridor feels thick, each breath a struggle as I follow the sound of his receding footsteps.

The corridor is dimly lit, the torches on the walls casting long shadows that flicker like the doubts darting through my mind. A desperate prayer loops continuously within me, a silent chant for freedom, for a miracle. Yet, with each step I take, the heavy weight of inevitability settles deeper. Hope, once a bright flame, flickers dimly now, threatened by the gusts of my grim reality.

Maybe things won't be so bad for me. Maybe he'll win and I'll get to stay.

My attempts at optimism are soon drowned out by the eerie thoughts that invade my mind. Either way, I'll be a slave to someone. A dark elf or an orc. I'm used to a miserable life here, but what if it only gets worse?

What if the orc is crueler than Aleryn?