Chapter 8: The Silver Bind

Alric’s whisper hung in the damp air. “...silver-lined manacles. They say they suppress magic.”

Elinalise didn’t move from her pallet. She let the words settle. Silver. She knew a little about that. Common folklore held silver as harmful to certain magical creatures, but this was a curse, not some fae bloodline. Still, if Crell and Adrion had ordered special restraints, they believed it would work. That belief alone was a fact she could use.

The guard on duty hadn’t heard Alric’s whisper. He was busy examining a loose thread on his tunic cuff.

She gave a small, acknowledging nod toward Alric’s cell, though he likely couldn’t see it in the gloom. Then she lay back down, staring at the ceiling’s rough stone. The curse-warmth pulsed in her belly, a constant, low-grade fever. If they could suppress it, even partially, that changed things. A suppressed curse might be easier to ignore, to endure over a long journey. But it might also mean she couldn’t reach for it if she needed to. If it was indeed a power, as Adrion claimed, then these manacles were not just restraints. They were a muzzle.

She spent the rest of that night not sleeping, but thinking. The week before transport stretched ahead, a finite resource. She needed to use it.

Her first experiment began the next night, after the last guard change. The watchman was a heavyset soldier who dozed off quickly, his chin sinking to his chest with soft snores. This was the best opportunity she would get.

Elinalise sat cross-legged on her pallet, the rough wool blanket draped over her shoulders like a shroud. She closed her eyes and tried to turn her attention inward, something she had always avoided. Focusing on the curse had always made it worse. Now she needed to understand what worse actually meant.

She started with breath. She breathed slowly, in through her nose and out through her mouth, trying to find a calm center beneath the persistent heat. The heat was not uniform. It pooled low in her abdomen, just below her navel. It felt like a knot of live coals, radiating warmth outwards along specific pathways—down into her thighs, up along her spine, flaring occasionally into her chest. It followed the rhythm of her heartbeat, but its own rhythm pulsed underneath, slower and more insistent.

She tried to mentally push against the central knot. It was like pressing on a swollen bruise. The heat flared in response, sharp and sudden. A flush spread across her skin from neck to hips. She broke concentration, opening her eyes and gripping the edge of the pallet until the wave passed. The guard snorted in his sleep but didn’t wake.

Direct opposition didn’t work. It provoked the curse.

Next, she tried observation without interference. She let the warmth be there and simply tracked its movements. When a flush began, she didn’t fight it. She noted where it started—often at the small of her back—and how it spread—in tingling waves across her skin. The accompanying cramp was a deep, muscular clenching that made her want to curl into a ball. She resisted that urge, forcing herself to stay upright and breathe through it.

After three such episodes over an hour, a pattern emerged. The flare-ups often followed a spike in her own fear or anger. The moment Alric had whispered about the manacles, she had felt a distinct throb. The curse seemed tied to her emotional state, amplifying stress signals into physical agony.

Could she control it by controlling her emotions? That felt like an impossible task. Her entire existence was now fear and anger and grief. Bottling that away might strangle her as surely as the curse.

On the third night of experimentation, she tried something different. Instead of pushing against the heat or passively observing it, she tried to channel it mentally. She imagined the warmth as a liquid, something that could be directed. She visualized gathering it from her limbs back toward that central knot, containing it.

The result was immediate and violent. It felt like trying to dam a river with her hands. The pressure built behind her mental wall until it burst, sending a scorching wave through her that left her trembling and slick with sweat. She bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out, tasting copper.

The guard stirred. “You alright over there?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Bad dream,” she managed to whisper, turning her face toward the wall.

He grunted and settled back.

That attempt taught her two things. First, the curse had its own will, or at least a predictable reaction to confinement. Second, extreme physical exertion seemed to dampen it temporarily. The trembling exhaustion that followed the failed channeling was accompanied by a noticeable ebb in the heat, leaving behind a numb fatigue.

So fighting it directly was futile. Letting it run its course was debilitating. Exhausting herself provided brief respite.

None of these were promising avenues for control.

During the days, she maintained her docile routine. She ate every bit of gruel. She returned her bowl and cup without delay. She spoke only when necessary. Corporal Bren watched her with his usual detached scrutiny during his shifts, but he seemed satisfied with her behavior.

Her conversations with Alric became her real work. They spoke in hushed fragments when the guards were distracted—during meal distributions, or when a particularly bored sentinel decided to pace the short corridor with his back to them.

She learned he had been Keeper of Archives for twenty years. He knew every scroll, every ledger, every royal decree by its shelf position and approximate content.

“Crell’s requests started about eighteen months ago,” Alric said one afternoon during the lull after the midday meal. He spoke slowly between shallow breaths, conserving his strength. “At first it was standard genealogical inquiries. He wanted lineage charts for the founding houses, including minor branches that had died out centuries prior.”

“Why?” Elinalise asked from her spot by the bars.

“I thought it was political maneuvering. Looking for obscure claims to land or title, perhaps.” Alric coughed softly into his fist. “Then his requests shifted. He wanted access to the oldest materials, the ones from before unification.”

“The sealed archives.”

“Exactly. Your father denied him twice. Said the knowledge there was dangerous and irrelevant to modern governance.” Alric’s eyes grew distant. “Crell persisted. He argued that understanding the old clan conflicts was key to preventing their resurgence along our northern borders. A reasonable argument, if you didn’t know the man.”

“But my father relented.”

“Last winter. I think Crell wore him down.” Alric’s expression turned grim. “I brought him three scrolls from the deepest vault. They were written on treated leather so old it crackled like dead leaves. The script was an early proto-draconic, all angular slashes.”

“Could you read it?”

“Enough to get the gist.” Alric shifted on his pallet, wincing. “They described rituals of binding and transformation. Pacts with entities referred to as ‘the old blood’ or ‘earth-ghosts.’ The magic wasn’t like modern sorcery, which manipulates elemental forces or weaves illusions. This was… parasitic. It sought to alter the nature of a living thing by grafting something foreign onto its soul.”

Elinalise’s hand went unconsciously to her stomach.

Alric noticed the gesture. “The rituals required three components: a focus of power—often a place of historical significance or a bloodline anchor; a sacrifice—a life offered to fuel the change; and a vessel—a living recipient for the altered state.”

The throne room balcony where she had stood watching her father’s corpse. Her father’s life. Herself. The pieces clicked together with cold finality.

“What was the purpose of such rituals?” Her voice sounded thin even to her own ears.

“According to those scrolls?” Alric looked at her directly now, his scholarly detachment unable to mask a flicker of pity. “To create weapons. Or to inflict punishments meant to outlive death itself. A curse that doesn’t just kill, but transforms its target into a living testament to their own defeat.”

Her father’s seal felt like ice against her skin beneath her tunic.

“Is there… is there any mention of countering such magic? Of breaking the graft?”

Alric was silent for a long time. The guard at the end of the hall hawked and spat on the floor.

“The scrolls I saw were descriptive, not prescriptive,” he said finally. “They explained how such things were done by ancient shamans who are now dust. There was no chapter on remedies.” He paused again, thinking. “But in any parasitic relationship, there are two parties: the host and the invader. The invader depends on the host for survival.”

“So if you kill the host…”

“The invader dies too,” Alric finished softly.

“What if you weaken the host? Starve it?”

“Then you weaken both.” He sighed, a rattling sound in his chest. “It’s theoretical, girl. I am an archivist, not a mage.”

But it was something. A framework for understanding what had been done to her wasn't much in terms of weapons or escape plans yet nonetheless provided crucial context that changed how she saw herself entirely now – not just as victim but also as battlefield where two forces warred inside one body

On fifth day Varek made another brief inspection visit He stood outside cell while Corporal Bren gave report

“No incidents sir”

Varek nodded His gaze swept over Elinalise who kept eyes lowered “Physical condition”

“Seems fine Eats what given”

“Good” Varek turned leave then paused as if remembering minor detail “Transport leaves dawn day after tomorrow Prepare prisoner for hard travel” This last part seemed directed more at air than Bren

Bren nodded “Understood sir”

Varek left

Message again clear Timeline confirmed Two days left

That night Elinalise attempted final experiment Instead focusing on curse itself she focused on body around it She tensed muscle groups one at time starting with feet calves thighs abdomen chest arms She held tension until muscles burned then released This wasn't about magic but about control over flesh itself about remembering she still owned limbs that could move independently of torment inside them

After hour rigorous isometric exercise sweat dripped from chin onto straw pallet The curse-warmth remained present but felt more distant somehow separated by layer fatigue Maybe exhaustion didn't just dampen curse maybe it created buffer between mind and sensation

She collapsed onto pallet breathing hard

From across hall Alric whispered “You sound like you're training for wrestling match”

“Something like that” she whispered back

Silence fell then Alric spoke again voice barely audible “Those silver-lined manacles They're being kept in guardroom upstairs I heard soldiers complaining about having polish silver before packing”

Polishing implied bare metal contact Would silver need touch skin suppress magic Probably So manacles would clasp directly around wrists

She filed information away

Final full day passed with agonizing slowness Every routine meal every guard change felt like last time Last bowl grey gruel last cup metallic water last stretch darkness listening Bren's whetstone scrape

She spent hours mentally rehearsing possibilities Silver manacles go on Curse suppressed To what degree Unknown She would have test subtly once on road If suppression total maybe she could think clearly for first time since castle fell If partial maybe flare-ups would still occur but weaker Either way she couldn't count on curse as weapon It might be rendered inert

Therefore escape would rely solely on physical opportunity chaos and her own prepared body

At dusk meal Bren slid bowl through flap as usual Elinalise took it As she straightened bowl almost slipped from fingers clumsy from cold and tension She fumbled caught it Gruel slopped over side onto floor

Bren watched blankly

She retreated pallet ate mechanically

Later lying awake she realized fumbling hadn't been entirely accident Part of mind already testing how body might react under stress when tired when clumsy Simulated failure

She needed be better than that

Dawn of transport day arrived not with sunlight but with noise Heavy boots clattering down stairs multiple voices door groaning open Torchlight flooded dungeon chasing shadows into corners

Four soldiers entered led by Corporal Bren Two held crossbows leveled loosely in direction cells Third carried coiled chain Fourth held pair manacles that glinted dully in torchlight

Silver They looked heavier than standard iron manacles thicker at hinges with smooth inner cuffs that shone pale against soldier's grimy hands

“Up” Bren commanded voice stripped even usual bored tone

Elinalise stood Her legs felt stiff She kept hands visible at sides

Across way Alric also pushed himself upright blanket falling from shoulders He looked frail ghost in sudden light

“Not you” Bren said without glancing his way “Stay put”

Alric sank back pallet His eyes met Elinalise's briefly held there Then he looked away at wall

The soldier with manacles stepped forward while crossbowmen covered him Bren unlocked cell door swung it open hinges squealing

“Turn around Hands behind back”

Elinalise turned She faced stone wall of cell smelling damp mold She placed wrists together small of back

Cold metal touched skin first just fleeting brush Then manacle clamped around left wrist The metal wasn't just cold it felt somehow hollow like it leeched warmth from flesh on contact The inner cuff fitted snugly not biting but enclosing entire circumference wrist Second manacle closed around right wrist with solid click

Immediate change occurred within her

The ever-present knot of heat in belly didn't vanish It muted It transformed from pulsing coal into dull heavy stone Its radiance dimmed The warmth that normally seeped along limbs receded pulling back toward core until she felt almost cold for first time in weeks Shivers ran up arms unrelated dungeon chill This cold came from inside from sudden absence familiar fever

But not complete absence Pressure remained deep ache where fire had been now banked smothered under weight silver It throbbed dully rhythm out sync heartbeat like something trapped pounding against lid

She took experimental breath expecting flare Nothing happened just same muffled ache

“Move” Bren said

She turned walked out cell between two crossbowmen Soldier with chain stepped forward linked chain through rings connecting manacles then handed free end Bren who wrapped around his hand twice giving short leash

They marched her toward stairs The other soldiers fell step behind Up close stone steps worn smooth centuries footsteps Torchlight danced ahead At top door stood open grey pre-dawn light filtering into lower hall

They emerged into space where she had once stood before Crell Hall empty now except few stacked crates against far wall Morning air bit sharp after dungeon's stagnant damp She inhaled deeply tasting soot and frost

Through wide archway leading main courtyard she saw column forming Soldiers maybe twenty moved around wagons checking harnesses loading packs Horses stamped hooves on cobbles snorting plumes steam into cold air Two enclosed wagons waited one larger with solid wooden sides one smaller more like cage on wheels barred sides roof leather cover stretched over frame

And there standing beside larger wagon conversing quietly were two figures immediately recognizable despite distance Lord Crell wore travelling cloak dark fur trim Mage Adrion beside him looked even thinner outside torchlit rooms his grey robes hanging loose He held staff topped with cloudy crystal which he leaned on as he listened Crell speak

As if feeling her gaze Crell turned His eyes found hers across courtyard He didn't smile didn't frown Just watched as Bren led her forward chain clinking faintly

Adrion also turned His expression was one clinical assessment He looked at manacles at her face then gave small satisfied nod to Crell as if confirming some hypothesis

Bren led her toward smaller barred wagon Captain Varek stood near its rear open door He wore practical travel gear leather armor over thick tunic sword at hip He consulted with sergeant holding wax tablet Varek glanced up as they approached His eyes took in manacles chain Bren then her face His own expression gave nothing away professional commander overseeing prisoner transfer

“Secure her in transport wagon” Varek instructed Bren “Use rear compartment Separate from other cargo”

Other cargo Elinalise wondered what that meant Supplies Probably Or perhaps other prisoners

Bren tugged chain leading toward wagon rear Steps led up into darkened interior Inside she could see wooden partition dividing space Front section held crates strapped down Rear section empty except for thick iron ring bolted floor

“In” Bren said

She climbed steps awkwardly hands bound behind back making balance difficult Inside wagon smelled of old straw and pine resin Bren attached end chain through floor ring used heavy padlock secure it leaving enough slack for her sit not stand fully He stepped back out slammed door closed plunged compartment into near darkness Thin slivers light came through gaps between wooden planks walls Barred window high up rear door showed slice courtyard outside

She settled onto floorboards back against partition The chill from stones seeped through thin trousers Silver manacles pressed against spine sending constant dull ache through wrists into shoulders Muffled throb in core remained steady background presence now easier ignore than ever before but also somehow more ominous in its silence like predator waiting just beyond firelight