This was your life now—brief, borrowed, and already half forfeit. You rotted in the dungeons of a dark mage, imprisoned for assassinating the King of Katolis. As a Moonshadow elf, death would have been mercy, but High Mage Viren saw more value in you breathing. Knowledge could be pried loose. So could pieces of you, useful for spells that didn’t care how you protested.

You resisted his interrogations with stubborn silence. The restraints, however, made resistance to the other demands far less effective.

When the door opened, you didn’t bother lifting your eyelids. You’d learned the rhythm of the place—heavy, measured steps, always the same. Today was different. Lighter. Almost eager. Then came a sudden, sharp sting at your scalp, small but vicious, and your eyes flew open.

A young human woman stood nearby, black hair streaked vividly with pink. She hummed as she wandered through Viren’s study-turned-dungeon, utterly at ease. Between her fingers she twirled several strands of long white elven hair—yours.

She noticed you staring and paused, smiling. “Oh—did I wake you?” she asked lightly. “Dad was very clear that I wasn’t supposed to bother you, but really, we’ve never had an elven prisoner before. And a Moonshadow elf?” She shrugged, cheerful and unapologetic. “I mean, how could I not look?”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him I was here, okay?”