Elara
Pain taught faster than mercy ever could.
Elara learned that within the first day.
The chamber they kept her in wasn't a dungeon—not in the way stories warned you about. No dripping chains. No screaming prisoners. Just smooth black stone etched with sigils that drank power the way lungs drank air. The restraints on her wrists hummed constantly, not painful exactly, but exhausting. Like trying to think underwater.
Time blurred.
They woke her. Tested her. Hurt her just enough to see what answered.
Then they waited.
At first, nothing did.
She failed again and again—reaching for power that slid through her fingers like smoke. Each failure was documented. Discussed. Quietly judged.
"She's unstable."
"She's blocked."
"She's bonded wrong."
The words scraped worse than the restraints.
When exhaustion finally dragged her to her knees, a man stepped into the chamber she hadn't seen before.
Older. Controlled. Eyes sharp with intelligence rather than hunger.
