The prison barracks were a cramped, two-tier wooden structure pressed against the inner wall of the Dark Elf war camp. The air reeked of damp stone, iron, and unwashed bodies. Lantern-light bled dimly through the gaps in the slats, enough to cast restless shadows but never enough to see clearly.
They were shoved inside with curt orders, the door clanging shut behind them. Eliakim counted at least a dozen other prisoners — some broken, some still glaring at their captors — but kept his expression vacant, the act of a man who understood nothing of their language.
The night hours were an illusion here; the glow never fully died, only dimmed to a deep ember hue. It made rest impossible — and opportunity constant. Eliakim sat in the farthest corner, knees drawn up, seemingly still. In truth, his eyes fixed on a section of the wall where the stone met the barracks' foundations.
The mortar was old. Older than the camp. This wasn't part of the original design; something lay behind it — perhaps a forgotten drainage shaft. That meant possibilities.
When the sentries' boots scraped across the floorboards overhead, Eliakim froze, letting the rhythm of their patrol mask the slow testing of the stone's edge with his fingertips. There was give — slight, but enough.
Outside, in the stables, Skyling was bound in null-binder cuffs, the dull metal draining every trace of magic from her. Even her natural shimmer had dimmed to a lifeless grey. She tried to lift her head when Eliakim passed earlier, but the weight of the cuffs seemed to drag her low.
Her eyes still sought him. Their bond was silent but unbroken.
That bond became the center of Caleb's whisper later that night, when the guards tossed them their meager food.
"They won't expect an escape from the air," Caleb murmured, low enough that only Eliakim could hear. "If we can get her free and those cuffs off, she can carry a rope out over the ravine. But…" his voice tightened, "I need my bow to do it."
Eliakim didn't look at him, didn't answer. Instead, he pressed a palm against the wall where the Bracelet of Kharuun rested invisibly under his sleeve. The weapons of himself, Gideon, and Ezra were safe — but Caleb's bow was locked away in the armory, a glaring missing piece.
That night, the work began.
Eliakim waited for the guard shift to change before drawing a rusted shard of tin from his sleeve — stolen from the mess hall hours earlier. With slow, patient scrapes, he began hollowing the mortar around the stone. Gideon and Ezra, unaware of the details, provided unplanned cover by arguing loudly over whether the evening rations could even be called food.
By the time the lights shifted toward dawn, he'd widened the gap enough to see blackness beyond.
It wasn't much. But it was the first crack.
Far from the war camp, Captain Vaeryn Solthir stood within the outermost sanctuary of the exiled queen — a fortress carved into the ravine's rock and hidden behind enchanted mists. Legionaries trained in shadowed courtyards, their armor etched with symbols of rebellion. Silent sentries patrolled narrow bridges above the abyss, their eyes sharp and their tongues still.
Vaeryn knelt before the queen, his face carved into the mask of loyal service. In truth, he was listening, memorizing, waiting. The war was moving toward its first strike — and the prisoners were exactly where he needed them to be.
Eliakim didn't know yet what game Vaeryn was playing. But he knew one thing:
If the stone could be moved, the wall could be breached.
And if the wall could be breached, they could run.