Chapter 1
“We need to turn back, Meyra,” Daora’s voice trembled with poorly concealed anxiety. “We must rest. We cannot linger in the dark for so long—if fatigue dulls our senses, we are as good as dead.”
“Is the valiant Daora afraid of pathetic goblins?” Meyra’s lips curled into a contemptuous sneer.
Daora knew that beneath this ostentatious, venomous insolence lay only a deep-rooted pain and an unquenchable thirst for revenge that was burning Meyra from the inside out.
“No, Meyra. I was killing before you were even born. Or are you trying to provoke me with your sharp tongue?” Daora hissed, her hand slowly dropping to the hilt of her dagger.
“Oh, I didn’t think I’d strike a nerve so easily,” Meyra tossed back maliciously, her cold gaze never leaving the commander. “And if your hands itch to slit my throat, don’t blame me. Blame your own cowardice and insignificance.”
Daora swallowed nervously and moved her hand away from her weapon. Attacking Meyra here, in the abyssal depths of the underground, was sheer suicide. The clash of steel would inevitably attract the Kkhrels, and the scent of fresh blood would lure even worse monstrosities.
“That’s what I thought,” Meyra scoffed in triumph. “Well, since you’re so exhausted—we head back.”
She said it condescendingly, as if granting a great favor. Daora swallowed the insult.
“It will be a long journey. We spent three days reaching the borders of the Ferrodins, all for nothing...” Meyra glared at the commander with irritation.
“Do not forget, Meyra, these lands are ruled by the Shaarns. To cross into their territory is to sign our own death warrants.” Daora looked at her companion with a timid hope that she would finally temper her impulsiveness and listen to reason.
“I know,” Meyra replied, her voice barely a whisper. “There’s no point in going there with you anyway.”
“What?!” Daora flared up, losing the last shreds of her composure. “You forget yourself! I command the scouts and the guards of Zilnaril! I gave you this chance! If you use that tone with me one more time, I will kill you!”
In a lightning-fast motion, Daora drew her dagger and pressed the blade against the insolent girl’s throat. She breathed heavily through clenched teeth, teetering on the edge. Her fingers trembled with the urge to deliver justice right here and now, but the terror of being left alone in the pitch-black tunnels held her back.
“Go on then!” Meyra shouted, suddenly bursting into a ringing, manic laughter that echoed off the cavern walls. “Do it! But you won’t. You are weak! You will never make it back to Zilnaril alone!”
Daora snapped. With a furious scream, she slammed the dagger into the rocky wall, a hair’s breadth from Meyra’s face.
“Stop it! Stop testing my patience! Yes, you are right, I won’t make it out of here alone. But I swear, the moment we return, I will throw you in the dungeons! I will report everything to the High Priestess, and then we will see who is laughing!”
“You mean—your older sister?” Meyra parried mockingly. “For such a revered priestess, it must be an unbearable disgrace to have such a pathetic sister.”
She leaned in, bringing her face inches from Daora’s, and whispered:
“I am certain that every time you leave on patrol, she prays to the Goddess that you never return.”
That whisper was the final straw. Daora’s nerves shattered. With a guttural snarl, she lunged at Meyra, tackling her to the cold stone, and drove the point of her dagger toward her throat with both hands. But Meyra’s fingers clamped shut around the bare blade in a death grip. Daora pressed down with all her weight, trying to force the steel even a millimeter closer to her enemy’s neck, but the girl would not yield. Meyra’s sliced palms flooded with crimson blood; heavy, sticky drops began to fall slowly onto her own face.
Suddenly, Meyra drove her knee sharply into Daora’s stomach. Daora gasped for air and collapsed heavily onto the stones, dropping her weapon.
“See?” Meyra spat out, pulling herself up with heavy breaths. “You are nothing. Your place is serving goblets in the safety of your chambers, not walking the deep patrols.”
Daora jerked, trying to reach the fallen dagger, but Meyra’s heavy boot came down mercilessly on her fingers. A piercing pain shot through her hand. Gritting her teeth, Daora desperately tried to yank her hand free, but the small shards of stalactites littering the floor only dug deeper into her soft skin, tearing it to bloody shreds.
“Don’t you dare! I am the sister of the High Priestess!” she hissed, choking on the pain. “If you harm me, you sign your own death warrant! They will execute you in the most agonizing way imaginable!”
With her free hand, Meyra picked up the dagger and crouched down by the face of the defeated elf.
“Is that so? Do you really think I’m foolish enough to let them uncover the truth?” she said with icy contempt, violently grinding her heel into the crushed fingers.
Daora let out a bloodcurdling scream.
“We have ventured so deep into the darkness that by the time I make it back to Zilnaril, the subterranean beasts won’t have left even your bones.”
Daora’s eyes filled with tears of primal terror.
“Please, don’t do this... Why? Why are you doing this to me?”
“Oh, you don’t know?” Meyra feigned surprise. “It seems you’ve completely forgotten.”
“Is it because of...” Daora started, but she never finished her sentence.
A short, ruthless swing—and with all her might, Meyra drove the dagger’s blade straight into her temple.
Daora’s body went limp. Meyra slumped heavily onto the stones beside the corpse, greedily gulping down the stale cavern air. There was no turning back now. For murdering the sister of the High Priestess, she truly faced a gruesome execution, but she couldn’t step back. She could not forgive the pain the Velindrin family had inflicted upon her.
“I will destroy every last one of you, Daora,” Meyra whispered into the ringing silence of the dungeon, wiping the other woman’s blood from her face with the edge of her sleeve.
Daora had been the last, the seventh offspring of the ruling House of Velindrin. For an elf of one hundred and twenty years, she was exceptionally beautiful: heavy, pitch-black hair braided into a thick plait falling below her waist, and enormous eyes the color of the purest emerald. Alas, behind this captivating beauty lay neither a sharp mind nor true bravery. And in the cruel, eternal struggle for power, where sisters ruthlessly tore each other’s throats out for the title of High Priestess and the throne of the Underworld, such empty shells rarely lived long.
With trembling hands, Meyra uncorked a leather waterskin and took a greedy gulp. But the moment the salty taste of blood from her own lips mixed with the water, a wave of burning, suffocating rage washed over her. With a snarl, she splashed the water directly onto her face, desperate to wash away the crimson stains and the sticky nightmare of what had just happened.
She had planned Daora’s death for so long, meticulously calculating every step... And now, it was done. The enemy was dead, the past grievance avenged. But why, instead of a long-awaited triumph and peace, was there only a black, viscous emptiness yawning inside her?
“Damn it... Damn it! Damn it!” Meyra shrieked hysterically, hurling the empty waterskin at the rocky wall in a blind rage.
Gathering her strength, Meyra managed to haul herself to her feet. With her boot, she kicked away Daora’s dagger in disgust—an elegant steel toy with a gem-encrusted hilt—and strode away without so much as a backward glance at the corpse.
Behind her lay three days of an exhausting trek. Initially, Meyra hadn’t planned to get this close to the borders of the Shaarns, but the patrol squad of twelve Virns had marched in too tight a formation. It had taken considerable effort to convince Daora to scatter the group across different tunnels so she could finally be alone with her victim.
Now, all she could do was pray that the Goddess hadn’t prepared any new, cruel trials for her. Falling into the clutches of the Shaarns meant certain and swift death. Then again, given Meyra’s current predicament, that was far from the worst possible end. The Virns in her home city were renowned for their twisted imagination and terrifying passion for exquisite torture, making the prospect of a quick demise bring an almost perverse sense of relief.
After walking about two hundred meters, the fugitive froze before a fork branching into several tunnels. For the entire journey here, a bloody veil of vengeance had clouded her mind, and now she realized with an icy dread: she had absolutely no memory of which path led back to Zilnaril.
“Calm down, Meyra,” she whispered fervently into the gloom, clutching her head in her hands. “You can do this. You have to survive so you can grind House Velindrin into dust... For all the pain... the humiliation... Focus!”
But her thoughts darted in a wild swarm, tripping over one another, and quelling the panic seemed an impossible task.
I need to make camp. I need to sleep, she finally decided, trying to steady her breathing. As sickening as it is to admit, dead or not, Daora had been right. If I don’t rest, I’ll just die out here.
Choosing the central tunnel, Meyra began her descent and soon found herself in a truly mesmerizing place. A colossal underground fissure shimmered with a scattering of luminescent stalactites hanging from the vaulted ceiling like spears of ice. Drops of water falling from the stones shattered against the surface of a boundless subterranean lake, chiming a hauntingly soothing melody.
Yet this beauty harbored a bone-chilling cold that emanated from the dark lake waters.
How I wish I could light a fire, Meyra thought longingly, shivering involuntarily. But the risk was unjustifiably high. In the Underworld, any glimmer of light or scent of smoke was a dinner invitation to the beasts waiting patiently in the dark for someone else’s mistake.
Still, Daora’s sticky, drying blood tightened her skin and glued her fingers together in a sickening way. Surveying this bleak, freezing hall—so reminiscent of her own torn soul—Meyra made her decision. She had to step into the icy water. Wash off the foreign blood. And cool the burning rage that poisoned her heart and clouded her judgment.
Unhurriedly, as if every movement now cost her immense effort, Meyra unbuckled her tight leather belt. The weighty baldric fell to the stones with a dull thud. Form-fitting trousers made of fine cured leather, embroidered with silk threads that faintly glimmered in the dark, slipped to the floor next. With a quiet sigh, Meyra pulled the blackened steel chainmail over her head; all this time, it had pressed down on her shoulders like a dead weight, chafing her skin through her damp undertunic and constricting her breath.
Kicking off her heavy boots, she stepped onto the bare stone barefoot. A piercing frost instantly shot through her, rising from the soles of her feet all the way to the nape of her neck. This electrifying, sharp sensation sobered her, bringing a long-awaited peace and a slight clarity of mind.
Meyra slowly waded into the lake. The water was glacial, almost burning, but it was precisely this frosty bite that finally grounded her back in reality. Wading in chest-deep, she leaned backward, allowing the water to take the weight of her exhausted body. Completely relaxed, she floated on her back, surrendering to the soothing, dark weightlessness. Her long, snow-white hair fanned out across the black surface, swaying in time with the barely perceptible ripples, like millions of the finest silver spiderwebs.
She closed her eyes.
I can feel the heat fading from my head, the thought drifted through her consciousness. The chaotic swarm of thoughts has quieted down, leaving behind only a ringing emptiness. An emptiness akin to the echo of drops falling in the dark. I feel nothing... Nothing but the icy water scalding my skin, and the unbearable fire tearing my heart apart. Sometimes I think that not even eternal permafrost could chill this pain. I have been dead inside for a long time. And if this cold did not sting so fiercely, did not force me to cling to life, I would simply fall asleep. I would let myself sink to the bottom and drift deep, deep down... Because there... there I would find you again.
With her eyes closed, Meyra let the frigid water close over her, but her mind was already slipping through time, hurtling into the past—to the place where her only warm memories remained, the ones that still comforted her battered soul.
...The chill of the cavern faded, replaced by the view of a city at night. Stalactites glimmered above the spacious terraces.
“It is ill-advised to leave your mistress at night, Meyra. You know the regulations state I must punish you immediately and escort you back to your chambers under guard. What are you doing here?” a deep, velvet voice resonated from the darkness.
Rayel stepped from the shadows. He was the Commander of the Inner Courtyard Guard and the personal bodyguard to Lady Elyra. Tall, imposing, with thick, pitch-black hair pulled tightly at the nape of his neck into an intricate, elite braid. But his primary weapons were his eyes—piercingly violet, with narrow serpentine slits for pupils, they possessed a hypnotic, predatory magnetism that drove both lowly handmaidens and highborn ladies utterly mad.
Even his uniform fit him with tantalizing perfection. Over thick black fabric, elite blackened steel chainmail hugged his torso, every link tailored flawlessly, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and his waist. A severe velvet cloak draped asymmetrically over his left shoulder, leaving his right arm unhindered for his sword, and was clasped across his chest by a heavy silver brooch. This deliberate, dangerous austerity made women dream of only one thing—tearing that armor right off him.
“I am merely looking at the city at night, Rayel. Or is that forbidden to me now, too? The mistress has been asleep for hours, and I simply wanted to be alone.”
“Alone?” his lips twitched into a sly half-smile.
Before she could react, he closed the distance and effortlessly scooped Meyra into his arms, lifting her off her feet. Rayel pressed his forehead against hers, his breath scorching her skin:
“Oh, Goddess... How I have missed you.”
Meyra, barely holding back a blissful smile, coyly pulled away at the exact moment his lips sought to capture hers.
“Hey, what is this?” Rayel mock-scowled, pulling an exaggeratedly hurt face. “Did my little Meyra not miss me even a bit?”
“Fool... Of course I missed you. I waited so long for you! Where were you these past two days? I looked for you everywhere...”
“I was urgently dispatched with a strike force to sweep the lower tunnels. Forgive me for not even saying goodbye; it all happened too abruptly,” his voice trembled with tenderness as he affectionately traced her chin with a finger.
“I am so tired, Rayel,” the words tumbled out on their own, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I am so tired of the fact that we cannot be together. Tired of hiding like criminals, tired of being a spineless slave. I want to belong to you completely, and you to me! What happens if we get caught? What if they decide to tear us apart?!”
“Then I will die,” he stated firmly, without a shadow of doubt. “But stop dwelling on the worst. We are servants of this House; that is our fate. We must obey...”
“But I don’t want to!” Meyra cried out desperately.
Rayel instantly clamped his broad palm over her mouth, looking around anxiously into the darkness of the courtyard.
“Hush... hush, my love. Or have you decided to hasten the day of our demise?” he whispered with a soft but tense smile.
She pulled his hand away.
“No. I just want to be with you for real. Rayel... let’s run away.”
Meyra gripped the rigid links of his chainmail with her slender fingers, squeezing with such desperate force that her nail snapped with a crunch. She didn’t care about the pain.
“Please, let’s run away from here!”
“Not now. No matter how fiercely I wish for it, right now it spells certain death for us both. We must plan everything meticulously. In such matters, one cannot afford to make mistakes.”
“I know,” Meyra narrowed her bright eyes slightly, trying to peer into the very core of his soul. “I just want to know... do you truly want this as much as I do?”
Rayel gazed at her for a long moment before his eyes softened.
“Enough about plans and fears,” he gently took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Come with me. I have prepared something for you.”
As they descended the spiral staircase, Rayel abruptly froze. The heavy, shuffling sound of footsteps echoed from the darkness of the corridor.
“Wait here,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. “And not a sound. I’ll check it out.”
He melted soundlessly into the shadows, leaving Meyra all alone. She held her breath, listening intently to the resonant silence of the palace walkways.
“Commander!” came a muffled call. “I’ve finished my rounds of the courtyards; all is quiet. The northern sector is clear, no signs of intrusion, but the gates need fixing—the hinges have rusted through.”
Judging by his voice, Rayel was standing with his back to Meyra.
“Good, Vandir. Thank you. I will inspect the southern side,” he replied in an emphatically even tone, betraying absolutely no emotion.
“Commander, haven’t you already checked the southern side?” the guard blurted out. His voice was strained, and his breath gave away the heavy stench of sour ale.
Rayel drew his sword with blinding speed. The steel gave a pitiful ring as it cleaved the air.
“Have you decided you can command me, dog?” he snarled. He didn’t raise his voice—it held only a glacial, lethal threat.
Vandir paled, his eyes widening in terror.
“Forgive me... my fault... I spoke out of turn!” he babbled, stumbling backward.
Rayel closed the distance entirely, pressing the point of the blade right against the drunken guard’s throat.
“Have you decided you can drink while on duty? Have you decided you can dictate what I should do?!”
Vandir began to tremble violently. The razor-sharp edge pricked his skin, and a thin trickling of crimson blood crept downward toward the sword’s crossguard.
“I beg you... forgive me! I’m an idiot, I wasn’t thinking!”
Rayel, reigning in the anger bubbling inside him, slowly lowered his sword. He understood: the guard was not to blame for his personal fury. His rage was born of powerlessness—the fact that he, a seasoned warrior, was doomed to be nothing but an attack dog, capable only of following other people’s orders.
“Leave,” Rayel whispered, speaking through clenched teeth. “And if I catch you drunk one more time, I won’t waste words. I will slice open your fat belly and feed you your own entrails.”
He pointedly turned his back. The guard was scared half to death, so much so that a puddle had formed beneath him out of sheer terror; bowing deeply, he stumbled and fled deep into the palace corridors.
