Lana
My footsteps echoed faintly along the cold stone corridor. The lanterns lining the walls barely lit half my face as I descended the stairs to the palace dungeon.
The air down here was always damp and heavy, like it held onto every scream that had ever been silenced.
But I kept walking.
Today, I wanted to see the High Elf crown prince myself— before he was returned to his homeland.
The guards bowed as I passed, opening the last iron gate. The faint scent of metal and blood clung to the rows of cells beyond. Some were empty. Some still held High Elf soldiers.
At the end of the corridor, in a cell larger than the others, he sat.
Elior Alvaeren.
Crown Prince of the High Elves. Prisoner of the Fae Enclave war.
I stared at him silently, taking in the sight of his now-thinner frame. His hair, once bright white, was dull and tangled, part of it covering his eyes. But that gaze… it was still sharp. Still arrogant.
