2412 Xavem 20, Velpa
There was a time when Elred cared about the maddening trickle of water plonking against the stone to her left. Or about the smell of upturned earth assaulting her senses. Or about the mud staining her tattered dress, arms, face, and hair. There was a time. Certainly, there was one when she cared about being inside this dingy cell, away from the machinations of the world above.
The Sovereign wasn't fooling around when she revealed the presence of an underground cavern meant to house anyone she dared not think about. And Elred found out in the worst way possible—by being the one inside it.
She shifted from her position, her side pressed against the uneven floor of compact dirt. Pain shot up from her back to her shoulders and the back of her neck. Her form plopped back down, reminding her of what happened before she came to in the darkness. The memory burned at the back of her head. It was when they were caught rummaging around the base for the thrones in the Sovereign's possession. And with how pissed off Kriachoria was, it seemed Reeca had found another secret.
Reeca. Or more accurately, Rikavien Torlin. A small laugh tore off Elred's mouth—a disjoint sound in the bleakness around her. What had happened to the young weaver? After Elred saved the varichria from the effect of the Sovereign's spell, she saw Reeca run. Hopefully, the young keiju was able to do it well.
Run, that was.
That's all any of them could do in the world the war brought to the world above. Elred didn't need to close her eyes to think about it. Each image of bloodshed, cruelty, and corruption has been imprinted in her mind for as long as she saw who the Sovereign was, what Synketros really stood for.
And she would always feel like a fool for believing in them, for fighting for them, and for turning her back on things she stood to lose but she needed all along. Family, allies, security, power. All of it gone in a blink of an eye. All because of what?
What has Elred been fighting for all this time?
A sigh escaped her lips. Her hand braced the lumpy floor, nails digging against the blunt jags of the debris scattered around. She tried to get up. Again. Her teeth dug into her lip, hard enough to send it numbing. Slowly, she dragged her aching form up, moving her hands from the floor to the rough stone walls. Progress. This was progress. The past few weeks, she couldn't even move a finger.
Maybe she could try and escape today. If the opportunity presented itself.
Found in her latest progress, she decided to try how far she could go. Could she stand on her two legs? How did Cirasa do it at an age far younger than her?
The thought of her brother made her stop, limbs freezing as if an ice sprite touched her veins and her bones. Cirasa. The last time she saw him was during the emergency tribunal for her, where she was stripped of her rights as the Crown Princess of Abshire and of Helinfirth. He had been there, but he had refused the position.
It left the throne without an heir, and the Queen would have to think twice about how to go forward. She would need to ensure the Valkalin clan stayed on top of Abshire, but an heir would be the only tool for that. Was Elred getting a new sibling soon? Maybe if the Queen prayed to Crozal, the Crimson Mother, enough, she might conceive.
But who was Elred kidding? Helinfirth stood on neutral ground, away from the madness Synketros and Cardovia cooked up at the fall of the High Queen in Edgerift. The Seelie Court, too weak and disorganized from the inside, failed to corral the island until a new High Queen took the reins. And now, with Umazure divided into two warring halves, Helinfirth, and by a stretch, Anahel—Elred's dear mother and the Queen of the Glass Mountain—stood in the path of destruction. It would only be a matter of time before the Sovereign or the Heiress took over it and used her people for their own nefarious means. Producing an heir would be the last thing on the Queen's mind.
So much for doing Elred's best in saving it.
At this point, she almost respected her mother for choosing to keep Helinfirth's military might to the minimum. Apart from the Garde, the civil police force, there weren't any formal armies reserved for war. Unlike the Pixies of the fortresses of Peltra, the shard fairies flew by everyone's greedy noses by making their territory to only be composed of keijuis obsessed with looks and fine dining.
It's still the connotation—that much Elred was sure no amount of cultural revolution would change—but it worked in their favor. It drove any serious attention away from them, and it made them capable of staying out of the game for as long as they did. But for how long?
And why did Elred care at this point? It's not like she could crawl back to her family and her people. Not when they had done everything they could to make sure she never would. Not when her only connection to them, the only thing proving she was one of them, was gone.
In the darkness, she dared to glance behind her. Her arm pressed against the rocks, using it to prop her weight up as she looked behind her. Her eyes had gotten used to the lack of light, making her somewhat able to see what was going on with her form. Her skirt, which was of bland fabric underneath all of the glamour she put over it, hung in its frayed glory to her shins. Even the darkness couldn't hide the dark stains splashed in it like spilled paint.
Blood. And it was hers.
With careful hands, she reached behind her and traced the length of her folded wings. Her fingers traced the length of the smooth glass, feeling the familiarity of her wings. Then, they stopped at the tips, at the serrated ends where her wings stopped short. Too soon. Pain erupted in maddening waves, sending her stumbling forward. Her stomach roiled, but with it having nothing in the last few days, she did nothing but gag.
She breathed in. Out. Once. Twice.
When she could handle it without feeling as if she would pass out, she tore her weight off the rocks and swayed to her feet. It was enough languishing. The wounds have closed, and the only thing making them hurt were the ripped ends of nerves dangling in the air like electric feelers, which were wholly alive. A shiver ran down her spine.
Maybe if she wrapped her wings with the remaining strips of her dress and started walking about naked as a flower-child, she would have more chance of making it out alive into the upper cities. Because as much as she told herself to never care about the affairs of the world above her, small worries still remained in the pit of her gut, waiting to be remembered.
Her family, her immediate one and not her entire clan, was still out there. Yet again, she left Savel and Reza without bothering to explain. Her husband had seen what she was and what she could do without blinking or feeling remorse, and he had taken it all in without fail. Answers—those were the only things he wanted. And as always, Elred came up with nothing. As always, she was the one running.
It seemed like it was everything she was good at these days. The image of the Sovereign's dainty smirk, her lips painted blood-red, flashed in Elred's mind. Scurrying like clerets—it's fun watching from above, it's what she would have said should she see Elred now.
But no more. Elred might be better off as a pesky rodent in the Sovereign's eyes, but even rodents have something to protect. And for her, it was her family. It's time she gave back to Reza the mother he deserved, and to Savel, the wife he never had.
That's why she was going to get out of here today. And right on time too.
Her favorite jailer has arrived.
First, it was the hulking shadow and the oppressing weight of the jailer's presence. Then, came the heavy but rhythmic sounds of his footsteps. Within a few seconds, the characteristic metallic shriek of the food tray sliding across the floor, from outside the cell towards where Elred sat. Slowly, as she had been doing the past few days and weeks, she crawled and settled near the rails separating her and the jailer.
It didn't take her long to realize the whole dungeon and the metal rails were lined with a fair amount of lesium ores. It also didn't slip her mind long the reason the Sovereign took care to approach Elred that day, inviting her to join Synketros with the promise of what Elred was looking for. The price to pay for it had been control over some mines in Rabante.
The Sovereign made a complete fool of Elred.
But never again.
Her scarlet eyes watched the jailer sink to the floor as he had come to do whenever he was by Elred's cell. It was all too simple. Helinfirth wasn't called the Land of Temptation for nothing. Since she could open her eyes and stay up for longer periods of time, she would make sure to look at the jailer straight in the eyes, as directly as the dark could afford her. Then, she would smile. Not the maniacal smirk she'd seen the Heiress and the Sovereign do. The one she painted on her face was meek. Innocent. She's happy to see a friendly face in this rotting hell. And it was the jailer.
At least, that's what she let him believe. After all, men would be men.
Within a few tries, the jailer had melted and would drop his guard near her. Then, as soon as she could move, however painful or slow, she would crawl towards the railings and stare up at him with such adoring eyes. She hadn't opened her mouth; he didn't know what her voice sounded like, but she played it out with her expressions. Sure, escaping would be ideal, but why would she when she's got a friend down here?
She would always start heaving whenever the jailer left. There was only one person whom she ought to flash such looks, but unfortunately for all of them, he's miles away with no idea of her whereabouts and her situation. And it's not like she liked the jailer. She merely wanted him to do the thing she had been grooming him to do.
Today would be the day—the sway in his form told her. He had done well, lasting as long as he did against Elred. Even without a drop of shard fairy glamour on her face, she could still beat out half the population of Helinfirth in a pageant. Not to brag, that was. And today was the day he would fall.
She neared the rails, and swallowing the harrowing pain throbbing in her back, she reached out towards the rails. Her fingers wrapped around the lesium-lined metal. While not lethal with skin contact, it would eventually cut her off from magic until her synnavaim withers out and she ceases to exist. It's not a fate she imagined her life would begot.
The darkness shrouded most of the jailer's features, but over the course of their short acquaintance, Elred had been able to glean a dark beard, dull brown eyes, and a crooked set of teeth worse than a banshee's. Maybe it was because he was one, but why would she care? She ran over the usual maneuvers with her facial muscles, making sure her features reflected her contentment, her happiness at seeing a familiar face. Even without glamour, who's to say a shard fairy couldn't pull off disguises?
She continued staring into the jailer's eyes. Seconds ticked by. The food tray sat by her feet, its contents already waiting for her. Her face told the jailer she didn't want any of it, so long as he was present. Conflict danced with the darkness. She watched it with bated glee, willing the jailer to crumble, to get to where she wanted him. His shoulders slumped. His knee touched the ground as he crouched in front of her.
Just in time.
Her arms shot out from the spaces between the rails and her fingers clasped his ears. Rounded. A half-blood. His cry was cut short as she drew back, slamming his forehead against the metal grates. A loud twang followed, no doubt waking the rest of the prison. That was, if there was anyone in a death they could wake up from.
Weeks of being trapped in the cell made her nails sharper and untrimmed than ever. She hooked her fingers and dug them into the jailer's ear. He struggled—that, he did. Elred used all of her residual strength to grapple him closer to the lesium rails. It did nothing but to dig against his scalp, but she needed him to be disoriented. She raked her nails down, drawing blood. The jailer's legs flailed, attempting to get him upright.
His arms swung forward, clawing against the sides of his head. Before he could reach her, she let go of his ears and moved to his throat. Nails out, they sank into flesh. It's not enough to kill. She'd need metallic nails for that. Probably something to add to her war regalia when she had the budget.
The jailer's eyes were wide against the shadows, his hands swiping against Elred's hold. She pushed her thumbs deeper into his throat. Deeper. Don't stop. Don't stop. A gasp. Two. Come on.
His eyes rolled back into his head. His form slumped forward, clanging against the rails one last time. Elred blew a breath and released him. With a groan, she gripped the edge of his cloak and yanked the rest of him nearer. His boots, made from the cheapest ymil leather, slapped the bowl of water from the food tray. Not to worry. She'd had enough of that putrid water.
Her hands patted the jailer down. She upturned pockets, checked every belt loop, and dug around nooks and crevices of clothes. Not a key presented itself. Of course. She wouldn't count on them bringing something that could aid a prisoner in escaping. She felt around his leg when a faint silver gleam caught her eye. Her heart jumped inside her chest when she reached his boot and ran two fingers down the side. A flap. Similar to how the pixies made the standard footwear in their army, the jailer's had slits in it. Which could only mean...
A manic grin spread on her lips as her fingers uprooted a small throwing blade. It wouldn't be of much help in an actual war, except maybe in blinding one opponent, but in this lifeless darkness, it was everything she needed. With freedom within reach, she scooted closer to where she deduced the lock was and jammed her stolen blade into it. Picking locks was the last thing she imagined she would need in escaping a prison, but look at her now.
The door swung open with a whine from the rickety hinges. If the jailer had merely been sleeping, he would have woken. But he wasn't. Elred liked to think he wasn't dead, but she wasn't known to hold back her intent to kill. Today wasn't any different. Even at her minimized strength, vermin wouldn't be able to stand against a former Synketrian general. Not now. Not ever.
Perhaps the Sovereign intended for Elred to escape and was simply biding her time. Maybe the plan had been to see where Elred would go after prison, and use whatever lay at the end of that path against her. The Sovereign was known to have done that for at least thrice during Elred's term anyway. To Kriachoria, lives were pieces to bet and the world was one elaborate board.
Didn't matter though. Elred had run out of things to care about these few months. If she was to die, she'd do it protecting the only people she was living for. By their sides.
So, she gritted her teeth against the pain shooting from her shattered wings and strode forward. Her fingers tightened around the throwing blade. In a place where the unknown was to be feared, continuing weaponless was a bad idea. She heard enough rumors about the underground caverns. Not only was it a place of forgotten history and hidden races, it was also the playground of the Sovereign's lackeys, whether they be on unrelated missions or sent specifically to prevent her from emerging from the depths of hell.
Her bare feet scratched against the ground, the sounds almost driving her mad as well as the fluctuating focus of her vision. Sometimes, the darkness blurred; other times, it sharpened. Ragged breaths rang in her ears, and it took a certain amount of distance covered to realize they were hers.
Still, she ran.
Until the ceiling exploded into a shower of debris and the unmistakable brightness of spells lit the shadows afire.