Masquerade of Shadows

The world outside the chamber was colder than she remembered. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone. Elara’s senses were still dull from the effects of the seals, but her will was sharper than ever.

Her gaze drifted upward, eyes tracing the flicker of runes overhead. Each line, each symbol, was a chain. Chains can be broken.

And if there was one thing Elara had learned, it was how to break.

And how to rise again.

Elara sat motionless, her back pressed against the cold stone wall of the chamber. Her eyes stayed fixed on the glowing sigils above, every flicker and pulse of magic ingrained in her mind. She'd spent too long in this cage to not know its every detail. The runes were ancient, yes, but ancient things had cracks. Weaknesses.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, flexing as she felt for the pulse of her own magic. It was faint, like a dying ember buried under ash, but it was there. That was enough. It had to be.

She sucked in a slow, steady breath, forcing her mind to still. No panic. No fear. Just focus. She remembered Aedan's words from long ago. "All magic has a source, Elara. If you know the source, you can control it. If you can control it, you can end it."

Her eyes darted to the corners of the room. The lines of runes all converged in one place — the center of the ceiling. A focal point. She knew it had to be the source of the spell draining her. If she could just disrupt it, even for a moment, she might be able to regain enough of her magic to fight back.

Her head tilted back, neck straining as she studied the symbols. Most of them were containment runes, but at the very center, there it was — the mark of Ares. His sigil. It had been woven into the spell itself, like a spider in its web. Her jaw clenched at the sight of it, rage simmering in her chest.

Of course it’s you.

The sigil glowed faintly with a deep crimson light, feeding off her energy. She could feel it now — the steady, rhythmic pull of her magic being drained, not all at once, but slowly, methodically. He was making sure she stayed weak, never giving her enough power to fully recover.

But he made a mistake. He let her see it.

And I see you, Ares.

Her fingers pressed against the stone floor as she forced herself upright. Her muscles screamed in protest, legs wobbling like a newborn fawn, but she bit her lip hard and pushed through it. Pain was nothing. Pain was fuel. She'd lived with worse.

Her breath was shallow as she stumbled forward, leaning on the wall for support. Her eyes stayed locked on the sigil above, every pulse of its glow marked in her mind like the beat of a drum. Her magic stirred within her, a flicker of warmth in the cold void of exhaustion.

Not much, but enough.

Her gaze flicked to the walls. The runes lined every surface, looping into themselves in endless circuits. They were all connected, all feeding into the same source. She couldn't break them one by one — it would take days, maybe weeks. But if she struck the source, she wouldn’t need to.

Elara's lips curved into a bitter smile. Break the heart, and the body dies.

Her fingers brushed the edge of a jagged stone on the floor. It was small, no larger than her palm, but sharp enough. She curled her fingers around it, feeling its weight, its edges. A crude weapon, but she didn't need precision. She just needed force.

“Let’s see how you like it when I’m the one carving sigils,” she muttered, her breath fogging the cold air.

Her heart pounded as she took slow, measured steps to the center of the room. Her eyes stayed on the sigil above her. She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate. Her muscles burned with every movement, but she welcomed the pain. It grounded her, reminded her that she was still here. Still alive.