Chapter 4 Tension Beneath The Stone

Chapter 4

ELIRA

Days passed. Or at least, she thought they did. Time blurred in a place where the sun only touched stone through narrow windows and her door opened by the whim of unseen hands.

Elira had stopped waiting to be rescued. It wasn't coming. Not yet. But she had eyes, ears, and a mind. And so, she watched.

Meals arrived twice a day-never by the same person. Water was refreshed, linens changed, the hearth kept burning. Her guards rotated silently every six hours. The lock clicked at odd intervals, sometimes unlocking for only minutes, as if waiting for her to try something.

She never did. Not yet. Let them grow complacent.

The gown she wore now was forest green with silver embroidery at the cuffs. Too fine for a prisoner. Too deliberate for coincidence. She knew what it meant: control wrapped in courtesy. Still, she wore it. Rage didn't require rags.

That morning, instead of a servant, it was a soldier who knocked. He was tall, armor etched with the sigil of the Crimson Fang-half-moon and claw. His eyes glowed faintly amber beneath his helm.

"The heir requests your presence," he said.

Not a question. Not an order either. Something in between.

Elira gave a single nod and followed.

The fortress corridors were colder than her chamber, lit by torches in iron sconces. She counted steps, turns, columns. Twice, she passed large wooden doors etched with sigils not of Vareth, but something older-runes twisted in ways that made her eyes ache.

She noticed something she hadn't before. A mark, just above the archway leading to the guest wing. Scratched into the stone.

Three diagonal lines crossed by a single stroke.

It was the sigil of Vareth's resistance.

Her heart thudded in her chest. Someone else was here. Or had been. And they'd left a message-deliberate, hidden in plain sight.

Guards patrolled in pairs. Servants kept their heads low. A few paused to stare at her-some with curiosity, others with open distrust. One old steward muttered a blessing beneath his breath as she passed.

They think I'm dangerous.

She smiled faintly. Good. Let them.

The soldier led her to a hall far quieter than the others. High arches curved into a domed ceiling, and shelves upon shelves of scrolls and books lined the circular room. A fireplace crackled at the far end beside a great table of maps and open tomes.

Kaelen Draven stood beside it, arms folded behind his back.

He didn't look up right away. But she felt him the moment she entered. The weight of him-imposing, restrained.

"Leave us," he said softly.

The soldier obeyed at once, the door shutting behind him like a seal.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Kaelen turned.

He wore a dark tunic lined with silver clasps, hair tied back, eyes unreadable and moon-pale. He studied her without speaking, gaze flicking briefly to her throat, then her eyes.

"You're healing," he said finally.

"Is that why I'm here? So you can check your handiwork?"

A shadow passed behind his eyes. "No. I wanted to ask if you needed anything."

She blinked. "Other than my freedom?"

"I can't give you that."

"Then we're done talking."

She turned to leave.

"Elira." His voice stopped her cold. He rarely said her name-when he did, it sounded like something ancient being invoked.

She turned back, jaw tight. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to understand you," he said quietly. "You were royalty. Now you are... not. Yet you do not break. That intrigues me."

She crossed her arms. "Maybe because I still remember what it is to fight. Do you?"

Kaelen stepped closer, not menacing-measured. "I fight more than you know."

Their eyes met. There was a flicker of something there-pain, maybe. Or restraint. It passed too quickly to catch.

She didn't flinch. "Tell me something true. Not politics. Not posturing. Just one truth, heir."

He was silent a long moment. Then: "You smell like blood and moonlight. I have dreamt of both since the day I was cursed."

Elira's throat dried. She didn't know what she expected-but not that.

His hand lifted-reflex or threat, she wasn't sure-but he stopped himself, fingers curling into a fist. The mask slipped for just a second. Beneath it, she saw something raw. Torn.

"You don't belong in a cage," he said quietly.

"Then let me go."

"That's not what I meant."

He turned away before she could answer, his cloak sweeping the floor as he walked to the door. It opened with a creak, revealing one of his councilors-Lord Tirian, gray-eyed and sharp, the kind of man who smelled blood in every room.

Tirian's gaze swept over Elira before settling on Kaelen. "We have a problem," he said. "The Veyran envoy is here. She's asking about the girl."

Elira didn't move. But her heart quickened.

Kaelen's voice dropped. "Tell her nothing. She's not to be involved."

"She already is. She brought gifts. Poisoned ones."

He cursed under his breath, then turned to Elira. Their eyes met, and for a breathless instant, something passed between them-acknowledgment, maybe. Or regret.

He looked at Elira. "You may go."

She left without another word.

Back in her chamber, Elira moved to the tapestry in the far corner. She knelt, brushing her fingers along the crack she'd marked days ago. Stone crumbled beneath her touch.

She dug. Carefully. Slowly. And there, tucked between stones, she found it: a torn piece of parchment, yellowed by age. No words, just a symbol drawn in charcoal-the eye of the old gods.

The sign of watchers. And war.

She pressed the scrap to her chest.

That night, sleep did not come. Her thoughts churned-Kaelen's words, the resistance sigil, the hunger that still smoldered in her blood.

The chains around her might have been invisible now, but they were tightening.

And yet, so was her resolve.

She wasn't just surviving. She was beginning to see the cracks in the walls.

And cracks let the light in.