Chains and Broken Magic
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 19: Lyralyn: Imprisoned
The days blur together in the dark. I do not know how long I have been in this cell. Less than a week, I think. The only markers of time are the guards who bring what passes for food ... and the slow drip of water from the ceiling. The air is cold and damp. My clothes cling to my skin. My hair is matted. My hands shake constantly.
But I am alive. And that is something.
I hear them outside my cell sometimes. Low voices. Harsh voices. Arguing voices.
“ ... she helped them escape...”
“ ... Bofur wants to execute her...”
“ ... humans are furious...”
“ ... the king demands answers...”
“ ... when are we going to sell her?”
I curl tighter into my corner, hugging my knees to my chest. Every word feels like a stone dropped into my stomach. Punished. Sold. Executed. I try not to think about it. I fail.
They bring me out of my cell once ... just once ... after my first confession. The chamber is colder than my cell. The torchlight flickers. The guards stand like statues.
“Why did you help them escape?” my interrogator asks.
I swallow. “Because she is my sister.”
The interrogator grunts. “And the human?”
“She ... she was kind.”
He snorts. “Kindness is weakness.”
I shake my head. “Kindness is strength.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then gestures for the guards to take me away. They drag me back to the cell. The door slams. The lock clicks. The darkness returns.
On the fourth day ... or the fifth, or it could be the tenth, I cannot tell ... one of the guards mutters something as he slides the tray through the bars.
“ ... still no sign of the escaped elf...”
My breath catches. “What?”
He freezes, realizing he spoke aloud. “Nothing.”
“Please,” I whisper, gripping the bars. “Aelwyn ... she hasn’t been caught?”
He hesitates. Then, grudgingly: “No.”
He snatches his hand back as if burned and storms away. But I barely notice. Aelwyn is still free. Aelwyn is alive. The knowledge warms me more than any blanket could. It fills the cold corners of my chest. It steadies my shaking hands. It gives me something to hold onto in the dark. Hope. Small. Fragile. But real.
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