3. Rhea

3

RHEA

T he air in the grand hall is thick with a silence that presses against my skin. It's a silent testament to the gravity of this occasion. The marble beneath my feet echoes the pounding of my heart, a relentless rhythm that feels loud enough to draw the attention of every dark elf in the room. I stand rigid in the line of human slaves. Each of us is a stark contrast to the nobles in their finery, our white dresses hanging on our frames like wilted petals.

The dark elves' eyes rake over us, appraising, calculating. Their gazes are like the touch of a winter frost, leaving a chill in their wake. I fight the urge to shudder, to shrink back from their scrutiny.

Aelith, the head of the household, steps forward like a predator stalking its prey. His voice, when it cuts through the silence, is as cold and sharp as the icicles that hang from the eaves of this forsaken mansion. "Tonight, we honor an age-old tradition," he proclaims, his eyes gleaming with a cruel light that makes my blood run cold. "A hunt, to entertain and to remind us of our place in this world."

A murmur ripples through the crowd of dark elves, a sound that is both eager and satisfied. My breath hitches in my throat, and I can feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me even paler than usual. The hunt. It's a word that carries the weight of finality, a word that has haunted my nightmares since childhood.

I glance sidelong at the slaves on either side of me, their faces masks of terror and resignation. We are the potential offerings, the sacrificial lambs to their twisted amusement. The thought of being pursued through the dark, foreboding woods that border the estate sends a shudder through me. I've heard tales of those who were chosen before, their fates sealed in a heartbeat. None have ever returned.

Aelith begins to pace slowly in front of us, his eyes sharp as he surveys his selection. "Each year, we choose a select few to represent the pinnacle of our dominion," he says, his voice carrying across the hushed hall.

My heart is a caged bird, fluttering wildly against my ribs. I can feel the gaze of every dark elf like a physical touch, each one a brand that marks me as less than human, as property to be disposed of at their leisure.

"This year's tributes," Aelith continues, his voice drawing out the moment, "must provide a challenge worthy of our skills."

The word 'tribute' hangs in the air, a specter that chills me to the bone. I can't breathe, can't think. The room tilts dangerously, and I dig my nails into my palms, the pain anchoring me to the present.

The grand hall is a mausoleum of whispers and dread as the human slaves are dismissed one by one. Each name called is a reprieve, a stay of execution, and with each announcement, the crowd thins, leaving a trail of discarded hopes in its wake. I stand among the remains, the heaviness of my impending fate a leaden mantle upon my shoulders.

Aelith prowls before us like a shadow given form. His eyes, void of mercy, soon land on me. "You," he says, his voice a serpent's hiss, curling around my heart and squeezing tight. "You. You. You. You will be our tributes for the hunt.” He points to a few human slaves including me, and the air is sucked from the room.

Chaos erupts. Screams rend the silence. Some try to flee, a futile attempt at escape that ends in brutal finality. The dark elves, amused by our panic, cut down two who dare to run. Their bodies crumple to the ground like broken dolls. The message is clear. Resistance is not only futile, it's deadly.

I remain still, a statue carved from ice. My heart hammers against my ribcage, a frantic drumbeat that echoes the tumult in my mind. I've always known this day might come, but knowing and experiencing are two different beasts. The former is a shadow, a whisper in the dark; the latter is a roaring blaze that consumes all in its path.

The room spins, a kaleidoscope of fear and helplessness. I watch, numb, as the other chosen ones break under the weight of their despair. Some weep silently, tears carving rivers down their cheeks. Others stand defiant, their spirit unbroken even in the face of certain death. I envy them, their ability to cling to anger and defiance when all I feel is a vast, consuming emptiness.

Aelith's lips curl into a cruel smile as he surveys his handiwork. "Let this be a reminder," he announces, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din, "of your place in this world. You live by our grace, and you die by our pleasure."

His words are a slap to the face, a stark reminder of our status as nothing more than chattel. I want to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, but the words die in my throat, choked by the oppressive air.

The dark elves soon herd us away. We are ushered into a smaller chamber, away from the prying eyes of the nobility. Here, the reality of our situation sinks in, a cold, hard truth that settles in the pit of my stomach.

I am to be hunted, a plaything for the dark elves' amusement. The forest that borders the estate, once a symbol of the unknown, of freedom, is now my arena. The thought of it, of running for my life through the shadow-draped trees, fills me with a dread so profound that it threatens to pull me under.

As I sit in the smaller chamber, the walls press in around me like the jaws of some great beast. The air is thick with the scent of fear and despair, a noxious perfume that clings to the stone walls and fills my lungs with each shaky breath.

The other tributes huddle together, their whispers a hushed symphony of terror. I remain apart, my thoughts a maelstrom of memories and regrets. I think of the stories told in hushed tones during the long nights, tales of tributes past who were hunted like animals, their screams piercing the silence of the dark woods. I remember one story in particular, a girl not much older than myself, who was caught and tortured for hours before her merciful end finally came. The image of her broken body is seared into my mind, a grim reminder of the fate that awaits me.

I clench my fists. My eyes, ever vigilant, scan the room, taking in the faces of those who share my doom. We are now bound together by fear and the cruel whims of our dark elf masters.

A girl to my left, her eyes wide and glassy, begins to weep silently. I want to offer her some words of comfort, but what comfort can be found in the face of such terror? Instead, I turn away, my gaze falling upon a young man with fire in his eyes. He catches my look and holds it, a silent conversation passing between us. There is defiance in his stance, a spark of rebellion that ignites something within me.

"We're not dead yet," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, meant only for me.

I nod, a small spark of resolve flickering to life amidst the overwhelming dread. "No," I reply, my voice steady despite the tremor in my heart. "We're not."

The door to the chamber creaks open, and a dark elf guard steps inside. His eyes sweep over us, cold and indifferent. "Prepare yourselves," he commands, his voice a cruel lash that cuts through the silence. "The hunt begins at dawn."

The room erupts into a chorus of whimpers and murmurs, but the guard pays them no mind. He turns on his heel and leaves, the door closing with a finality that chills me to the bone.

I draw in a deep breath, the air heavy with the heaviness of our collective fate. I think of my parents, of the life of freedom they’ve been denied, and a fierce determination takes root in my soul. I may be a slave, I may soon be hunted, but I refuse to be a victim. I will survive this hunt and spit in the face of those who seek to break me.

I rise to my feet, my movements deliberate and measured. The others watch me, their eyes filled with a mixture of hope and fear. "We need to fight, to survive this," I say, my voice carrying across the room.

The young man with the fiery eyes meets my gaze. "I'm with you," he says, his words a lifeline in the midst of the storm.

The others soon join in, their initial shock giving way to a shared resolve. We are tributes, yes, but we are also human, and we will not go gently. We will face the hunt with courage and a fierce determination to survive.