Chains and Broken Magic
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 3: Lyralyn: The Kitchens
The mountains rise before us ... dark silhouettes against a bruised sky, jagged and ancient, like the ribs of some sleeping giant. By the time we stand at their feet, my legs feel hollow. We have walked for hours ... yesterday we marched east, and then all the way back west. Nearly twelve hours we were on the road. Today, as soon as the first hint of dawn lit the eastern sky, Aelwyn and I have been marched east again. Still in shackles. Still wearing a slave’s burlap tunic.
The air grows colder with every step upward towards Bofur’s hall ... a fortress made of stone, much off which is deep in the tunnels and caverns under the mountain. It tastes different here: sharper, metallic, tinged with the deep‑earth magic the dwarves draw from the stone. The wind carries the scent of pine resin and coal smoke. My breath fogs in front of me.
I stay close to Aelwyn. Her presence is the only thing keeping me upright. She walks with her chin high, her face carved from ice, but I can feel the tension in her arm where it brushes mine. She is afraid. She would never say it, but I know. I know because I am afraid too.
The path winds upward in steep switchbacks carved directly into the mountainside. The stone beneath my feet is worn smooth by centuries of Dwarven boots. The sound of our chains echoes off the cliffs ... sharp, metallic, too loud.
The dwarves gather along the terraces to watch us arrive. They stand in rows, armour polished, beards braided with metal rings. Their expressions are unreadable ... neither cruel nor kind, simply ... assessing. They look at us the way miners look at a new vein of ore: with interest, calculation, and a hint of suspicion.
Their culture is carved into the very stone around us. The terraces are decorated with runes that glow faintly in the dusk ... wards of protection, strength, and lineage. Dwarves carve their history into the mountain itself. Every pillar, every archway, every stair tells a story.
I wish I could read them. I wish I could understand anything about this place that is about to become my world.
Bofur waits at the entrance to his hall. He is taller than most dwarves, broad‑shouldered, with a beard the colour of storm clouds and eyes like polished obsidian. His armour is etched with runes of command. When he looks at Aelwyn, something in his expression shifts ... interest, calculation, something I do not understand but instinctively fear.
Aelwyn lifts her chin higher. I try to do the same, but my neck feels too weak.
The human officer hands us over with a curt nod. “Two of Cyran’s daughters, as agreed. The eldest and the youngest.”
Bofur grunts. The humans depart and the dwarves escort us into their hall. My chest tightens. I don’t know where Elenora is now. I don’t know if she is safe. I don’t know if I will ever see her again. Aelwyn steps slightly in front of me, as if she can shield me with her body.
Bofur gestures to his guards. “Take the tall one to my chambers. The small one goes to the kitchens.”
The words hit like a blow.
“No,” Aelwyn snaps, stepping forward. “She stays with me.”
A guard grabs Aelwyn’s arm. She jerks away, fury blazing in her eyes. “Do not touch me.”
Another guard moves to restrain her. I see the moment she considers fighting ... truly fighting ... but there are too many of them. And I am here. And she will not risk me.
“Please,” I whisper. “Aelwyn ... don’t.”
Her jaw clenches. She forces herself still.
Bofur watches her with a faint, almost amused, smirk. “You’ll learn your place soon enough, elf.”