Chains and Broken Magic
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 13: Lyralyn: The Escape Plan
The weeks pass in a blur of heat and noise. Every morning begins with the first bell vibrating through the stone, shaking me awake on my straw mattress. Every day begins with the same unwashed burlap uniform, the same heavy clogs, the same rush of servants moving like a river through the corridors.
And every day ends with my arms aching, my fingers blistered, my throat raw from smoke.
But I endure. Because Aelwyn is enduring her imprisonment. Because Mother would expect it. Because I cannot afford to be weak here.
The collared kitchen workers, regardless of race, are all confined to the same section of the underground network of caverns. A metal grill door blocks the only exit to the surface, guarded day and night by two warriors. The bars are thick, the lock enormous, and reinforced with runes created with the dwarves deep-earth magic. No collared worker is allowed through the grill without permission. Like other collared workers, my collar is locked by a metal disc marked with a rune. According to Mara, any unauthorised attempt to pass through the grill door will trigger the rune on my collar to befuddle my mind, leaving me helpless while awaiting recapture.
The dwarves call it ‘security’. The collared workers call it for what it is: a cage. But cages have cracks. And cracks can be widened.
Each day I scrub pots. I peel roots. I carry water. I serve meals.
The dwarves barely look at me. They see a small elf girl, quiet and harmless. They do not see the way I listen. They do not see the way I watch. They do not see the way I memorize every corridor I can access, every guard rotation, every whispered argument.
I learn more in silence than most people learn in conversation.
And there is so much to learn.
My thoughts about the rune on my collar trigger a memory ... a lesson from Mother, whispered in the palace gardens as we gathered herbs for healing salves. ‘Moonmint soothes,’ she had said. ‘Starblossom sharpens. And frostleaf ... careful, Lyralyn. It clouds the mind if crushed too finely’.
Frostleaf. Brunna keeps a jar of it in the kitchen stores. Dwarves use it sparingly in winter stews to numb toothaches. They do not know what elves can do with it.
One night, after the fires burn low and the others sleep, I slip from my straw mattress and creep to the herb shelves. My hands tremble as I gather frostleaf, moonmint, and a pinch of starblossom dust. I crush them together with the flat of a spoon, mixing until the powder turns pale silver.
When thrown into a person’s face, it leaves them mesmerised ... dazed, compliant ... for around ten minutes. No more. No less.
I can only make enough for one use. Taking more would attract Brunna’s notice. Enough for Aelwyn to get away from her guards. Not enough for me as well.
My heart pounds as I hide the powder in a scrap of cloth and tuck it beneath my mattress. I convince myself that I know what I am doing. That I know the risk and the consequences.
But I also know this: Aelwyn cannot stay here. She must rally our people. They will follow her leadership. Even though it means I remain trapped here, I push ahead with my plan.
Mara becomes my lifeline. She visits the kitchens more often ... checking supplies, delivering messages, speaking quietly with Brunna. When she sees me, she always finds a reason to linger. She brings news of Aelwyn.
“She’s getting stronger,” Mara whispers one morning as she collects a tray of bread from me. “Stronger than the guards realise.”
I swallow hard. “Is she ... alright?”
“As alright as she can be,” Mara says. “She asks about you.”
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