The world had narrowed to pain.
Farin hung from iron chains bolted into the stone wall of a salt-stained cellar, his arms stretched above his head, wrists raw and bleeding beneath crude manacles.
His tunic—once ivory silk embroidered with the sigil of his family—was little more than shreds, soaked in sweat, blood, and water. His silver hair clung to his face in sticky strands, and one eye was swollen shut.
The smugglers had brought him down here three days ago. Or was it four? Time blurred in the dark. They never spoke names, only shifted between tormentors like a cruel game of dice. Each one worse than the last.
He was their prize. Their "elven jewel," someone had sneered. A rare pureblood. Educated. Fluent in human tongues. Intelligent enough to have once advised the rumoured resistance.
Valuable enough to break.
A door groaned open, letting in slanted light and the scent of iron and old blood. Footsteps sloshed through the damp floor.
