Curtis lay on the cold, concrete floor, the chill biting through his skin. A single thin white mattress rested beneath him, offering little comfort. His wrists were shackled with heavy iron chains bolted to the wall, and a metal collar clung tightly around his neck. Leather straps crisscrossed his chest and limbs, restricting any real movement. There was no window, only the dim flicker of a single hanging bulb above, casting long, distorted shadows across the basement walls.

As he began to stir, a dull ache throbbed through his muscles. His head pounded, vision swimming in and out of focus. Everything felt distant—like waking from a deep, drugged sleep. But the sharp sting in his arms and the pressure around his throat grounded him fast.

Curtis blinked hard, trying to steady his breath. Then, the realization struck like a bolt of ice through his veins.

He wasn’t here by accident. He’d been captured. Because he was an elf.

The soft pointed tips of his ears, once a source of pride and identity, now felt like a curse in this place—marked, hunted, and bound simply for what he was.