Chains and Broken Magic
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 7: Aelwyn: The Small Chamber
The dwarves take me into the huge stone keep that forms part of the fortress that rises out of the mountain. The air grows colder with every step, tinged with the scent of iron and smoke. Torches flicker along the ancient carved stone walls, their light catching on runes etched into every surface. The hallways twist and turn like a labyrinth. I memorize each one automatically ... left at the cracked pillar, right at the arch carved with wolves, straight past the heat vent for the forges.
If I am to escape, I will need a map. Even a mental one. When we pass a corridor we have already travelled along I realise that the guards are taking me on a convoluted route to confuse my mental map making attempt.
The guards stop before a heavy oak door reinforced with iron bands. One of them unlocks it with a key the size of my forearm. The hinges groan as it swings open. The room inside is small. Bare. A single cot. A bucket of water.
“Your sleeping quarters,” one guard grunts. “Bofur will send for you when he’s ready.”
“What about these shackles?” I ask.
“We have no orders to free you of them,” replies the guard, as he leaves the room, locking the door behind him, throwing me into darkness.
As though the guard has realised a mistake, he returns a few minutes later with an oil lamp which he hangs from a hook by the door. He must have received further orders as he removes my shackles. I work the circulation back into my hands and feet disguising that my hands are shaking. No matter how degrading the experience, a queen’s daughter does not break. To add to my humiliation, the guard places an iron collar around my neck before leaving. He locks the door behind him.
A short while later a knock sounds at the door. Softer than before.
“May I enter?” a woman’s voice asks.
Human. Young ... late teens at a guess. Nervous.
“Yes, come in,” I reply, since refusing would be pointless.
The guard accompanying her unlocks the door, and it opens just enough for her to slip inside. She is small, with dark hair braided neatly and a simple linen dress. Her eyes are wary but not unkind. I notice that she too wears an iron collar. However, unlike mine, it doesn’t have a small bell attached at the front.
“I’m Mara,” she says. “I’m a servant of the fortress keep. I’ve been given the task of bringing your food.”
I study her. She carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knows every corner of this fortress. Someone who has survived here a long time.
“Have you served here for long?” I ask.
“Eight years,” she says. “My father fought against the dwarves. My enslavement was the penalty he paid for failing to defeat Bofur.”