FORLA
Pain blooms behind my eyes like a flower made of knives, dragging me up from darkness that tastes of copper and fear. My head throbs with each heartbeat, vision swimming as I try to focus on... anything. Stone walls. Flickering candlelight. The metallic tang of blood in my mouth.
I try to move and can't.
My wrists burn with a dull, constant ache. When I look down, bile rises in my throat. Thick ropes bind my wrists, but not to each other—to heavy stones, each one the size of a human head. Too heavy to lift, but there's enough slack in the rope for me to move my hands in limited, jerky motions.
Like a marionette. Like a doll.
Memory crashes back in sickening waves. The cave that seemed abandoned, exploring deeper into the tunnels, finding chamber after chamber filled with porcelain dolls. Hundreds of them, all staring with glassy eyes. Then footsteps behind me, turning, pain exploding across my skull...
"Oh good, you're awake, little dolly."
The voice cuts through my terror like rusted glass. Sing-song, childlike, but wrong in every possible way. I force my head up, neck muscles screaming in protest, and see him.
He emerges from behind shelves lined with more dolls—scores of them watching with painted smiles. A Dark Elf, but unlike any I've seen. Pale beyond pale, unnaturally thin, dressed in rich robes that might once have been elegant but now hang in tatters. His movements are too fluid, too graceful, head tilting at angles that make my spine crawl.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath. Completely black—no whites, no pupils, just endless dark pools that seem to swallow light.
"You sleep so deep, almost like death," he continues in that horrible sing-song voice, approaching with deliberate, measured steps. "Vitti just had to tip toe towards you and give you your medicine like a good little dolly."
He speaks of himself in third person, like a child playing make-believe. The candlelight flickers, casting dancing shadows that make the dolls seem alive, seem to turn their heads to watch.
"Such pretty hair," he murmurs, reaching out with fingers that are too long, too pale. "Such lovely skin. You'll make a beautiful addition to my collection."
I try to speak but my throat is desert-dry, terror stealing my voice. This isn't possible. Dark Elves are cruel, yes, but this... this is madness given form and breath.
From somewhere behind those black eyes comes the sound of humming—a children's lullaby rendered discordant and wrong. He circles me like a predator studying prey, head tilting this way and that as he examines my bound form.
"Dolls must be pretty," he says, producing a wooden comb from his tattered robes. "Dolls must be perfect. My collection is very important, you see."
He begins brushing my hair with gentle, obsessive strokes. Each touch of the comb sends revulsion crawling across my scalp, but I can't pull away. The stones make it impossible to move more than a few inches in any direction.
"There we go. Much better." His voice holds genuine satisfaction, like an artist admiring his work. "Now, lift your hand, dolly. Show Vitti how pretty you are."
I stare at him, uncomprehending.
"Lift your hand!" The childlike tone never changes, but something cold and deadly enters those black pits. "No, higher. Why won't you do as you're told?"
He tugs sharply on the rope binding my left wrist. The stone jerks upward, rope cutting into my flesh, sending lightning bolts of pain up my arm. I bite back a scream.
"Broken dolls make me angry," he whispers, and for a moment his voice drops to something almost normal, almost sane. "You don't want to make me angry, do you?"
He produces a small glass bottle filled with liquid so dark it seems to absorb light. When he uncorks it, the smell hits me—sweet and cloying, like flowers rotting in summer heat.
"This will help you be a better dolly," he croons. "More... compliant."
Terror finally breaks the paralysis in my throat. "Please, don't?—"
"Shh!" His finger presses against my lips, and his skin is ice-cold, like touching a corpse. The contact sends tingling numbness spreading across my mouth, down into my jaw. "Dolls don't speak unless spoken to."
Whatever magic he carries in his touch steals sensation from my lips, my tongue. I can barely feel my own mouth, but somehow I still taste the wrongness of him—copper and ash and something that might be grave dirt.
He tilts my head back with those too-long fingers, preparing to pour the dark liquid down my throat. In that moment, looking up at his black eyes and mad smile, I think of Thoktar. Of his hands gentle on my face, his voice calling me beautiful, his promise that nothing would ever hurt me while he drew breath.
The rage that fills me burns away fear like wildfire consuming dead wood.
When Vitti forces my mouth open, I bite down on his finger with every ounce of strength I possess. My teeth find flesh, pierce through to bone, and suddenly his blood fills my mouth.
