I do not ask questions, nor do I scream for help. Khuzuth walls are impenetrable, and the mercenaries are already drawing their steel.
Pivoting toward a wrought-brass table resting against the wall, I lock my focus onto a massive, unlit candlestick. The thick base possesses enough density to crack a skull. Wrapping both hands around the brass stem, I heft the weapon and square my shoulders against the approaching threat.
"Take her alive." The lead mercenary draws a hunting knife, his boots scraping the marble. "Seredryl wants her breathing when she reaches the flesh-brokers."
The first mercenary lunges, his massive hands reaching to tangle in my hair.
Dropping my center of gravity, I duck swiftly beneath his sweeping arm. I swing the brass candlestick with every ounce of kinetic strength in my shoulders, bypassing his armored chest to strike the unprotected joint of his knee.
The metal connects with bone. A sickening, wet crack echoes through the corridor.
Roaring in agony, his leg buckles instantly, sending his massive frame crashing to the marble floor.
Refusing to stall my momentum, I spin, raising the candlestick to parry the second dark elf. The profound discrepancy in our physical mass becomes a fatal flaw. The second mercenary backhands me before I can brace. The sheer kinetic force knocks my bare feet entirely out from under me.Stumbling backward, my shoulder collides violently against a stone pillar.
The candlestick flies from my numb fingers, clattering uselessly across the floor. White stars explode across my vision as the sharp taste of copper floods my tongue.
Scrambling to my hands and knees, I spit the blood from my mouth, refusing to yield to the stone.
A steel-toed boot strikes me squarely in the ribs. The brutal impact flips me onto my back, driving the oxygen completely from my lungs. The third mercenary drops his armored knee directly into my stomach, pinning me helplessly against the cold marble.
I thrash with feral desperation. Clawing blindly at his face, my nails dig into the soft flesh beneath his eye, tearing downward until hot blood coats my fingertips. Cursing violently, he seizes my wrists and slams them brutally against the stone.
"Hold the beast still!" Limping toward us, the lead guard pulls a thick, dark cloth from his belt. The fabric reeks of crushed bitter-root and foul alchemy—a highly potent, paralytic sedative utilized in the slave markets.
Twisting my face away, I kick my legs wildly, but the mercenary pinning me applies his full, suffocating weight to my chest. My bruised ribs groan under the pressure. The foul cloth clamps forcefully over my mouth and nose.
I lock my jaw shut, refusing to draw breath. The mercenary pinches my nose with vicious force, physically prying my lips apart. The acrid, burning fumes rush aggressively down my throat.
The adrenaline drains from my muscles instantly. The polished ceiling of the corridor violently spins as the faces of the traitorous guards blur into dark, looming shadows. Attempting to drag my nails across the stone, my fingers refuse the neurological command.
The world collapses into absolute black.
Damp stone.The suffocating stench of rotting water and raw sewage.
A fragmented sliver of consciousness pierces the void. My head rolls limply against the cold, wet ground. The paralytic sedative remains a thick sludge in my veins, rendering my limbs completely useless. Peeling my eyelids open requires monumental effort, the weak ambient light stinging my dilated pupils.
The immaculate architecture of the estate is gone. Freezing drafts carry the unmistakable, foul stench of the Undercity drainage infrastructure. The lower servant tunnels.
Dragged backward by my arms, the heels of my bare feet scrape mercilessly over the rough, uneven cobblestones.
"Throw her in the cart." The sharp syllables drip with aristocratic venom.
Blinking rapidly, I force my vision to stabilize. Illuminated by the sickly green hue of a sputtering alchemy torch stands Seredryl. Wearing a dark cloak over her crimson gown, the thick silver beads woven into her midnight-blue hair click softly against the damp draft.
Hauling my dead weight upward, one of the mercenaries tosses me brutally onto the splintered wooden bed of a covered smuggler’s cart.
My injured shoulder strikes the timber. A weak, pathetic groan escapes my lips.
Bridging the distance, Seredryl twists her long, elegant fingers directly into the honey-blonde curls at the nape of my neck. She yanks my head back, physically forcing my focus up to meet her plum-colored irises.
"Look at you." Seredryl's upper lip curls in sheer revulsion, her dark focus sweeping over the Warlord's sleep-shirt currently swallowing my frame. "You actually believed you had secured a place in this house. You truly believed a mortal could stand beside the Khuzuth."
Fighting the sedative, I attempt to force the words from my throat—to tell her that her bloodline is a rotting lie and Varynth is a butcher. The paralytic root freezes my tongue, yielding nothing but a fractured gasp.
"Zhetrin thought he could protect you," Seredryl whispers, the syllables laced with vicious venom. "He was so blinded by his obsession with a surface stray that he failed to account for a simple truth. A beast will always wander, and there are people willing to betray him for the right price."
She releases her grip, letting my skull strike the wooden planks with a dull thud.
