Chapter 11

T he door shuts behind me, the locks clunking into place and sealing me in with…whoever "he" is that the guards kept talking about. It's dark in here, but I can see a glow coming from around a corner just ahead of me. My mind starts to play tricks on me, the stories told amongst the slaves prominent in my thoughts. Dragons, beasts, and monsters so terrifying that they cause you to die of fear just by looking in their eyes. Is that what the guard was warning me about?

Don't look him in the eyes.

No, dragons haven't been seen in centuries, there's no way that the king has managed to capture one and keep it a secret below the castle. That doesn't mean there isn't a monster in here though, and I've learned the hard way that monsters don't have to look scary or hideous to be evil.

My eyes start to adjust, and I realise I'm in a short corridor that looks like it opens up into a room. To my right, I see an alcove full of mops, buckets, and other cleaning supplies just as the guard had told me. Reaching out, I grab a broom and clutch it to my chest like a lifeline. It's not going to do much to protect me against a dragon or another horrible beast, but it makes me feel better. Taking a few steps forward, I pause as I reach the end of the corridor and assess what I know so far. I'm deep beneath the castle, locked away with something dangerous. They wouldn't have this much protection against it if they didn't fear whatever was here.

What is it, and why have they kept it a secret?

It's hot down here, so much so I can feel sweat start to bead on my forehead and the small of my back. Now that I'm farther away from the door, I can hear a deep roaring sound, not what I'd imagine a dragon to sound like, but like the noise a large fire would make. I can also hear a banging. I hadn't heard it before over the roaring noise, but now I realise it sounds like metal against metal.

Frowning, I step out from the corridor to see if my guess is right, my fear forgotten for a moment as my curiosity gets the better of me.

I was right, it's a forge.

The room is large with high, arching ceilings. We must be really deep below the castle if they managed to create this. Along the whole back wall is a large forge, the flames licking at the coal inside. Anvils and other paraphernalia that I've never seen before lie out on work tables. I haven't gone far into the room, the wall to the corridor acting like a shield in case I need it against whoever, or whatever, is locked away in here. I'm confused, if this is a prison for a monster, why is there a forge in here?

Movement catches my eye and I jump back behind the wall, peeking out after a second to see what it was. Confusion floods me, and I tentatively push away from the wall and walk out into plain sight, not that he can see me. He has his back to me, and an emotion I've never experienced before rolls through me, I can't quite put a name to it. It's like I'm being drawn to him, like a physical pull that I have to resist with every fibre of my being. Unaware that I'm standing at the back of the room, the man picks up a sword, striding over to the forge and thrusting the metal into the flames. I don't know how he can stand to be so close to the fire, the heat even from here is scorching. As he stands there with his back to me, I decide to examine him, tilting my head to one side as I take him in. He just looks like a normal man, so why is he locked away down here?

He wears dark leggings that hug his muscular legs, but what really catches my attention are the muscles on his shirtless back that move and ripple as he stokes the fire. His skin is pale like mine and his back is covered in scars. This man has experienced pain, you can tell from the scars that weave a story on his flesh and the way he stands. He's tall, and although muscular, he's also slim in build through years of hard labour. I can't see his face, his long blond hair casting a curtain to hide it, the rest of the hair falling to just below his shoulder blades.

I bet he's pretty. I'm not sure where that thought came from, it's certainly inappropriate seeing as this guy may be the death of me. People don't get locked up for no reason , I tell myself, but something niggles in the back of my mind, something that has been deeply buried but wants to be heard.

"Come to torment me some more?"

I almost drop the broom that's clutched to my chest as he speaks, his accented voice reaching me from the other side of the room. I can't work out where his accent is from, but then again, I haven't visited much of our kingdom, so that's not surprising.

"I can hear you breathing, don't think to trick me again." His words are like a whip, lashing out and making me gasp. How can he hear me breathing from there? No human can hear that far. The man whirls around with unnatural speed as he hears my gasp, his face contorting as he sees me. "A girl?" he growls, spitting into the forge with disgust, the fire sizzling in response. Pulling the blade from the fire, he walks to the anvil, his eyes flicking over to me every few seconds as if he's trying but just can't look away. Despite the guard's warning, I can't take my eyes off him. That feeling that I should be here, that something important is happening, guides my actions. Everything I've learned and seen here is starting to pull together in my mind, and a sense of dread starts to rise within me.

Reaching out, the man grabs a hammer and starts to pound the sword. His whole body ripples with his strength, and it's as if I'm watching in slow motion as his hair shifts, revealing the sharp points of his ears.

"Elf." The word tastes like acid on my tongue, ringing around the room like an alarm, time suddenly returning to normal speed as I stumble back. I'm going to die, that's why the priest sent me here, he doesn't have to kill me, the enemy will. That way he gets his wish and manages to escape punishment from Grayson, and if I somehow survive this encounter, it's not as if I can tell anyone about it. They would kill me if they ever found out I'd told someone, and other than Grayson, no one would believe me.

"Those scum are now sending in a girl to do their dirty work?" His richly accented words reach me, and I find my anger and hatred growing. This is the enemy, even as slaves we had that ingrained into us—elves are evil and untrustworthy. Why would they have an elf, a sworn enemy to Arhaven, working below the castle?

The pounding of the hammer on the anvil rings in my ears and I watch, transfixed by his movements. I should be scared, but I'm filled with a mixture of awe and hate. It's a strange combination, that feeling tugging at my chest again, but I can't pull my gaze away from him. His face is distinctly feline, his almond-shaped eyes tilting up at the ends, the dazzling green of his irises obvious even from this distance. I was right, he is pretty. His long hair that I first thought was blond in the light of the forge is actually white, with his distinctive pointed ears poking through as he works. Placing his hammer down, he picks up the sword, pointing it at me before throwing it in a bucket of water on the floor next to the forge, the hot metal hissing.

"They think I won't kill you?" he sneers, stepping towards me threateningly. My heart seems to stop in my chest, but I stand my ground as he eats up the space between us with his long legs, stopping suddenly as if he's jerked backward. A familiar clinking of metal makes me frown. His expression is feral, and I pull my gaze away and look down at his feet, my eyes widening at the chains that encircle his ankles. I shouldn't be surprised, he's not here willingly, of course he's going to be shackled.

He's like me, my inner voice whispers, but I force that thought away. We're nothing alike, he's an elf, he's the enemy. Years of sermons from the priests flash through my head, reaffirming the same message. Elves are evil. Yet here, locked away underground and chained next to a burning forge, I can't help but compare us.

As a slave, you were also an enemy to the kingdom. Shaking my head, I look back up at the elf, his eyes narrowing and his lips lifting in a snarl as I meet his gaze.

"No, that's exactly what they hope you'll do," I reply honestly, standing my ground even though my body betrays me, my hands shaking as I ball them into fists. He's inches from me, if he reaches out he could grab my arm, but instead he watches me with narrowed eyes as if I'm something completely alien to him.

"What unholy magic is this?" Again, he spits the words out, like every second he is forced to talk to me pains him.

Perhaps it does, I know I'd rather be anywhere else than here right now. Again, some part of me whispers that I'm lying, that I'm exactly where I need to be. A noise of frustration escapes me before I can stop it, pushing those traitorous, confusing thoughts deep down.

"What do you mean?" I shouldn't be talking to him, encouraging conversation, but I can't seem to stop myself.

He seems to struggle for his next words, gesturing to his chest and letting out a noise of frustration when I look at him in confusion. "You don't have the word in your language." His tone implies it's my fault that he can't find the word he needs, as if I was the one to create the language, and I find myself narrowing my eyes. "The pull," he finally grits out, as if the words pain him, stopping my angry retort before I could voice it. Fear surges through me. He can feel it too ?

"I don't know what you mean."

Liar . It's the first thing I noticed about him, even before I realised he was an elf.

"Liar," he growls, echoing my inner voice, his face twisting into a scowl. "I know lying is second nature to the male scum, and it seems like it's passed on to the females too." Taking a menacing step towards me, I can hear the groaning of his chains, the metal screaming under the pressure as he battles against it. "Shame."

He's so close I can feel his breath against my skin, causing the little hairs there to stand up as tingles run across my whole body. He watches my reaction with interest before stepping back, and I realise he was just showing me that if he wanted to, he could break out of the chains restraining him. Frowning at his retreating back, I realise that there has to be something else keeping him here. If what the guards say is true and he's killed five of his "minders" and he's strong enough to break out of his chains, not to mention that he's surrounded by weapons, why has he not escaped? A glint catches my eye and I realise he's wearing metal cuffs around his wrists too, and another sense of familiarity strikes me. However, his cuffs have some sort of symbol etched into them, but I'm too far away to make it out. He reaches the flames and returns to making his swords.

Realising the conversation is over and I've survived, I back away into the small corridor to retrieve the cleaning equipment. I may have made it out of that interaction alive, but I've still got the guards to deal with, and I don't doubt that they'll follow through on Rodrick's threat. I can't hold it together anymore, and as I reach the alcove, I fall to my knees as my body shakes, adrenaline coursing through me, my breaths coming in fast, erratic pants as I try to control myself. Curling in on myself, I squeeze my eyes shut as I try to steady my breaths, inhaling deeply and holding it for five seconds before blowing it back out again. Over and over I repeat this until I feel more in control. I don't cry, I don't allow myself to shed any tears, but this has always been my way of coping when I get overwhelmed. It doesn't tend to happen much anymore. I've seen too much as a slave and have become desensitised to things that should make me feel overwhelmed. I don't know whether that's something to be thankful for or not.

Once I've regained my composure, I pick myself up off the floor and grab a bucket. I spot a tap at the back of the alcove, so I make my way over to it. There's no sink, simply a faucet and a drain in the ground. It makes me wonder where it leads to. Are there more rooms like this under the castle? It seems strange to put in a drainage system this deep down if it's just for one room, especially seeing that the room contains a prisoner. However, I push these thoughts aside, considering they aren't going to help me now. I need to focus on the job at hand. Filling the bucket, I reach for the mop, suppressing a sigh when I see that there's no cleaning fluid or soap, which is going to make this task almost impossible. Turning off the tap, I lift the bucket and carry it back out to the room, looking around to find the best place to start. Hammering noises call my attention, and as I glance over my shoulder, I see the elf watching me behind hooded eyes. Shying away from his expression, I decide to start in the far corner, as far away as I can get from him. Carrying the bucket over to my chosen corner, I raise the mop and dunk it into the water and start scrubbing the floor. I groan when I lift the mop a few moments later, seeing the thick layer of brown sludge covering it. Glancing back down to the floor, I realise it's just as dirty as it was when I started, if not worse. I've just managed to turn the dirt into mud. Rinsing the mop, I carry on, fighting against my growing despair as I only seem to be making more of a mess.

"What are you doing?" The clinking of the hammer against the anvil stops as he asks the question. He sounds frustrated, like he didn't want to ask but he couldn't help himself. Keeping my head down, I continue to mop the floor, hoping he will just accept my answer and go back to whatever he's doing.

"I'm cleaning."

A snort reaches my ears and this time I can't stop myself from looking up at him. Our eyes meet for a second and I hold his gaze. I swear his eyes widen before he's frowning again and staring at the floor I'm mopping. "No, you're making a mess."

As if I don't already know that. Pulling my gaze from the elf, I return to the task at hand. After refilling my bucket of water several times and stubbornly scrubbing at the floor, I start to see the fruits of my labour. I realise that the floor is actually marble, beautiful white marble with veins of red coursing through the stone, but it was covered in so much dirt and dust that you couldn't tell. What kind of prison has marble floors? The elf doesn't talk to me again, but I feel his eyes on my back as I work, much like how I keep stealing glances of him as I walk to replace my water.

The squealing of rusty metal fills the room and I turn, realising they're opening the door. I have no idea how long I've been down here, without any windows it's difficult to tell the passing of time. Two guards enter, holding up their crossbows as they walk in, their eyes scanning the room until they land on the elf. They position themselves on either side of me, their bows aimed at the elf who ignores them. A more senior-looking guard comes in, followed by two smiling goons behind him, and I realise that even had I managed to get the floor spotless, it was never going to be good enough. Looking down at the floor, he laughs and shakes his head.

"You call this clean? You've made it worse!" Shaking his head again, he turns and nods at the two guards who followed him in before leaving the room. The guards grin at each other before stalking towards me, violence lacing their features. Dropping the mop, I raise my hands to protect myself, realising too late that I could have used the mop as a weapon. The punch to my gut has me gasping in pain, dropping to my knees as a sharp pain rips through me. Once I'm on the floor, they go to town, their booted feet kicking at me until I'm gasping for air.

"Enough," one of the guards holding a crossbow barks out, and I glance up at him as my attackers pause, seeing that he's the guard who warned me before I came in. "The priest said only to mark her where no one would see. That's enough or she won't be able to walk." So that was Rodrick's plan, mark me where Grayson wouldn't see. He obviously hasn't banked on me having my own maid who would report everything to the high magician. My attackers smirk at me before striding out, leaving me in a crumpled heap on the floor.

"Get up," the kind guard orders, his crossbow still trained on the elf, who I've noticed has stopped working, his eyes boring into me.

With shaking limbs, I push up from the floor, not able to hold back the groan of pain as something in my chest shifts. I've broken ribs before, and I remember how painful it'd been, and I'm sure I've broken them again. The guards tense and I look up to see that the elf has taken a step forward, his eyes locking onto mine. We stay like that, our eyes fastened on each other, and it's not until the other guard barks at me to move that I finally break eye contact, pushing up onto weak legs as a hiss of pain escapes my lips, then I start the painful walk back into the guard room.

Rodrick's waiting for me, a gleeful smile on his face as he sees me limping toward him. He'd be handsome if it wasn't for the sick gleam that's always in his eyes. He doesn't say anything, he simply gestures for me to start walking up the spiralling staircase. This nearly has me groaning out loud, exhaustion making my limbs heavy, my body screaming in pain. Each breath I take is excruciating, but I don't want to be down here any longer than I have to be.

My world narrows down into forcing myself up the stairs, one foot at a time, each step agony, but I won't let them win. I've lived through worse beatings than this before, and it's not so much the physical pain, it's the psychological aspect. The guards are very good at conducting a punishment in the most agonising way possible. They didn't have to beat me in front of the elf, they could have easily taken me out into the underground room and done it there. It would have been safer for them, less time around the elf, but instead they did it as a message. To me, to him. The humiliation of being beaten in front of your sworn enemy, them demonstrating that you are nothing .

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, we reach the top of the staircase, the priest pushing past me to open the door. If I'd had the energy, I would have pressed myself against the wall, avoiding as much physical contact with him as possible, but I feel drained, both physically and mentally. I barely remember the walk back to the chapel, moving on auto pilot until a flash of blue and gold catches my attention. Relief fills me and I collapse to the ground, exhaustion taking its toll.

"What in the underworld did you do to her?" Grayson demands, his voice furious, his magic pulsing out from him in response to his anger. Striding over, he kneels in front of me, touching my chin gently to bring my eyes up to him. Whatever he sees there seems to reassure him before he turns the full force of his fury on the priest.

" I didn't do anything," Rodrick responds, as he faces off against the magician. His smile is easy, but his back is ramrod straight and there's a tightness around his eyes that tells me he's scared of the magician. Turning to face me, his smile turns sickeningly sweet. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Clarissa ." Grayson growls at the way he emphasised my name, like it's a curse word, but Rodrick is already leaving. Grayson continues to watch the priest walking away, but he glances over at me, his mask cracking a bit at whatever he sees.

"Are you okay?"

Am I? I hurt, I'm exhausted, but Rodrick hasn't broken me, he hasn't won. Nodding once, I try to shrug but can't hide the wince that the movement causes. "Can we just go please?"

Frowning, Grayson nods and leads me back to his rooms in silence.