Locked away in an attic and then condemned to the Pit-a brutal underground prison where the forgotten are sent to die. Boy, a mute snow-elf with a dangerous secret, escapes a life of captivity only to find himself thrust into a world of swords, sorc...
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"Kori, the carriage is arriving!" Yurik called from outside.
I hurried to pack my notepad and charcoal pencils into the worn leather satchel I'd grown attached to over the last year and a half. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. I wasn't afraid, not exactly, but a heavy nervousness had settled under my skin, prickling at every movement. It was time to leave.
I had thought there would be more time to mentally prepare, more warning before the moment arrived. But the morning came all the same, indifferent to my hesitations, brushing past my unfinished thoughts with the same steady certainty it had every day before.
The familiar scratch of charcoal, the worn feel of the leather straps under my fingertips... I tried to memorize it all as if it could somehow anchor me to the place I was about to leave behind.
When I stepped downstairs, the air smelled faintly of the fireplace, of burning cedar and the buttery scent of the bread Yurik had made that morning but hadn't touched. The hall was dim, lit only by the iron sconces flickering along the stone walls and the fire seemingly waving at me.
Yurik stood by the door, gripping the handle of my battered suitcase so hard his knuckles had gone white. His cloak was thrown over his shoulders, dusted with stray snowflakes that melted against the worn wool. His boots were still caked with slush from checking the courtyard, leaving faint, wet prints across the floor.
He looked me over once, his expression serious. His hair, the same light blue as mine, framed his face. He'd grown it out more and stopped cutting it short. He stood tall, and stiff in the foyer, almost blocking the wooden door.
He didn't want me to go.
I didn't really want to either.
But the carriage was already here and there had been little time to prepare for my journey. It was time.
At first, he wanted nothing to do with me. Grief had made him sharp-edged and bitter, still mourning the deaths of his wife and his brothers, and maybe even resenting the fact that I had been dropped into his life by Philia and her brother without any warning. I was an unwanted addition to the solitude he had chosen for himself.
But over time, something shifted between us. Slowly, almost without either of us noticing, he grew used to my presence. And I, in turn, came to love him with a quiet, aching loyalty I didn't know how to put into words. Somewhere along the way, we became each other's family, not through blood or promises, but through a thousand small, unspoken acts that mattered more than anything either of us could have said.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
Instead, Yurik reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, dark bundle. His hands, rough from years of sword-work and farm labor, trembled slightly as he unwrapped it.
"A gift," he said gruffly, as if embarrassed by it.
Inside the cloth was a choker. It was finely crafted from supple, dark leather, stitched with an elegant hand, with a small, polished silver clasp at the back. Simple. Practical. Beautiful.
