Page 10 of Bound In Shadow

Ice slides down my spine, but I keep my voice steady. “Let Xelith know I won’t kneel.”

She laughs softly. “That, little rebel, is between you and him.”

She gestures to the guards, and they yank me back off the platform, chaining my wrists together once more. My shoulders scream in protest at the rough treatment. Before they can drag me away, I fix one more look at the gathered officials. The air thrums with their collective smugness. They’re confident I’m nothing but a pawn.

Freedom vs. Power. Those words churn in my mind. I fought for freedom, for my people’s right to live without shackles. Now, ironically, I’m surviving because Xelith wields enough influence to keep me as his asset. My pride rails against it—I’d rather die on my feet. Yet my survival might be the only thing that keeps the rest of my rebels from total annihilation. If I can maneuver carefully, maybe I can still help them.

The guards shove me onward, and I stagger from the momentum. My thoughts spin, the magnitude of the situation threatening to crush me. I was certain I’d be sentenced to death or made a public spectacle, but Xelith’s claim changes everything. He’s painted a target on my back, but also given me a narrow path to breathe another day.

They lead me out of the antechamber and down another corridor. My head throbs with each step, and the clank of chains resonates through my skull. I have no idea where they’re taking me now—perhaps back to the lesser hall, or maybe some new holding cell. The fortress is a labyrinth of stone corridors and guarded thresholds, each more intimidating than the last.

We reach a long, arched hallway lined with tall windows. The sky outside is a dusky twilight. I see glimpses of Pyrthos City below—rows of stone buildings, narrow streets lit by enchanted lanterns. Further out, farmland stretches, though darkness swallows most details. A pang hits me at the memory of my rebel allies out there somewhere, scattered or dead.

One guard unlocks a heavy wooden door that creaks open to reveal a modest suite. A single window high on the wall, a narrow bed, a small table with a basin. Hardly luxurious, but it’s not a dungeon cell either. They shove me inside, and I catch myself against the table to avoid landing face-first on the floor.

The door slams shut behind me. I test the handle—locked, of course. My wrists are still cuffed, the chain’s weight adding to my frustration. I slump onto the edge of the bed, trying to ease the throbbing in my limbs. My side pulses like a raw wound. Blood seeps through the bandage I hastily tied there sometime after the battle. I grimace, pressing a hand against it to stem the oozing.

A swirl of questions besieges me. Where is Xelith now? Does he know they’ve dragged me before those officials, forced me to hear the council’s terms? Likely he orchestrated it—part of hisgrand plan to maintain ownership of me in the eyes of the lesser court. My lips curl in disgust.

Time drags. The window’s faint glow fades from gray to black. My stomach twists with hunger, and my head pounds from dehydration. Eventually, I lie down on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. The fortress hums with distant activity—footsteps in halls, low voices, doors slamming. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m a trophy behind glass, waiting for my captor to check on me.

Freedom vs. Power. The phrase echoes in my mind again, and I recall how fervently I’ve always believed that humans deserve to live without chains. That’s the freedom I’ve fought for, risked my life for. Now, ironically, I’m harnessing the power of an exiled prince—an enemy—to stay alive. It stings my conscience like a fresh wound.

A metallic scrape startles me. The door swings open, and in steps a figure holding a small lantern. My body tenses, bracing for more scorn. But it’s not one of the haughty officials from earlier. It’s a middle-aged human in a threadbare tunic and breeches, shoulders bowed under an invisible weight. His features are lined with exhaustion, gray hair thinning at the temples. A servant, probably.

“Um… good evening, mistress,” he says quietly, eyes downcast.

I fight a wave of embarrassment that he’s calling me mistress when I’m shackled. “Who are you?”

He steps further in, setting the lantern on the table. “My name’s Halren. I—I work here in the fortress, under the directive of House Vaeranthe. The prince asked me to tend to your injuries.”

I sit up, wincing at a stab of pain in my side. “He did, did he?” My voice drips with skepticism. Xelith is pulling strings behindthe scenes. Another reminder that he has enough clout to assign me a caretaker.

Halren clears his throat, rummaging in a small satchel. “I’m no physician, but I’ve learned some basic healing. Let me see what I can do for you, or he’ll have my hide.”

“You don’t have to worry about me attacking you.” I hold out my wrists. “The chains aren’t exactly conducive to strangling.”

He offers a shaky laugh that holds no real mirth. Then he takes a step closer, glancing at the bloodstain on my side. “You’re wounded there?”

I nod, swallowing a lump of pride. “Crossbow graze. I tried to wrap it, but it keeps tearing open.” It’s humiliating to be this vulnerable, but at least I’m being looked after by a fellow human—someone who might empathize, however silently.

Halren sets down the satchel, pulling out bandages, a small jar of salve, and a flask of what smells like diluted alcohol. “I’ll clean it first. Best brace yourself—it might sting.”

I clench the bed frame with my bound hands and let him lift the ragged edge of my tunic. The moment the alcohol touches my torn flesh, pain lances through me. I hiss, muscles rigid. Tears blur my vision for a second, but I blink them away. Halren mutters an apology under his breath.

“It’s all right,” I grind out. “Do what you must.”

He works quickly, applying a layer of salve that smells of bitter herbs, then wrapping fresh bandages around my abdomen. His hands are careful, deft, as though he’s done this many times for others. I don’t doubt it. The fortress must house plenty of battered slaves.

“Thank you,” I manage once the bandage is secure. It’s the first kindness I’ve received in a while—even if it’s forced by Xelith’s command.

Halren sets aside the supplies. He produces a small bowl of stew, covered by a cloth. “He… also said to bring you this. I didn’t know if you’d be awake. It’s not fancy, but it’s hot.”

My stomach gurgles at the scent. I recall the watery soup from before, my only sustenance since the battle. Hunger gnaws at me. “Thank you,” I repeat, more softly this time.

He lowers his gaze, stepping back. “I’m to check on you again tomorrow. If you need anything else… well, I’m not sure how much I can provide, but I’ll try.”

Before I can respond, he bows—an unnecessary gesture that makes my chest ache—and leaves, lantern in hand. The door locks once more, plunging me into semidarkness. One torch on the wall offers minimal light. I exhale, running a shaky hand through my tangled hair.

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