The clink of chains had haunted him for weeks, and now their absence felt louder than their presence. Elias rubbed at the raw skin around his wrists as the guards led him through the keep's stone halls, not down into the pits but upward—toward light, warmth, and the whisper of something more dangerous than iron: attention.
They brought him to a chamber meant not for lords but for favored guests: a straw bed with woolen blankets, a desk, a basin of water, even a barred window overlooking the courtyard. The air was no less cold than the dungeon's, yet to Elias it tasted like reprieve.
Whispers followed him wherever he passed. Servants halted mid-step, knights glanced sidelong, and younger squires stared openly at the stranger who had come from chains to quarters.
"Why him?" one voice murmured.
"A prisoner in the lord's hall?" another whispered.
"He must be a spy…"
Elias caught only fragments, but the tone was clear—curiosity, suspicion, resentment.
When the guards finally left him alone, he sat on the bed, fingers pressed against the coarse blanket. His body trembled not with relief but with the weight of realization.
He had survived.
Not by strength. Not by the mark that pulsed faintly beneath his tunic. But by words.
He remembered the council chamber, the questions, the stares that searched for cracks. Hadrien's cold eyes, Silven's probing, Kael's watchful silence. He had walked the line between truth and invention, and for now… it held.
But survival was not enough.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice no louder than a whisper to himself:
"I need a story strong enough to live… and useful enough to matter. If they ever decide I have none, I'll be back in the pit—or worse."
His gaze shifted to the window. Beyond it, the courtyard stirred with life—knights drilling, squires shouting, banners fluttering. The world moved on, war loomed still, and he sat here, an outsider in borrowed breath.
Elias lay back slowly, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. His wrists still ached, and the ghost of iron clung to his skin. Chains might be gone, but their shadow remained.
Not a prisoner. Not free.
Something in between.