Hostage Situations

The four adventurers left the fortress and began discussing how to recover the lost crown, piecing together rumors gathered since leaving the kingdom of Cornelia. Yet Cinnabar, the young Red Mage, found himself unable to focus on his leader’s words. His thoughts drifted back to that strange throne room, and more than anything, to the man who sat upon its throne.

“There is something wrong with that king,” he murmured.

“Of course there is!” Jasper said brightly, as if baffled that the group’s most perceptive member could miss something so obvious. “That wretch Astos, the dark elf, not only cursed the elven prince but also stole this king’s crown. And everyone knows a king is nothing without his crown. We have to help him reclaim it!”

“The swamp cave is dangerous and crawling with monsters,” Pyrite explained in the calm, measured tone that defined him. “It is essentially a maze of underground caverns with several levels of depth. Finding the crown will take time. I suggest a search-and-retreat approach. We engage only when absolutely necessary.”  

The leader and the thief continued their discussion until Selenite’s voice gently cut through.

“Cinnabar, are you alright?”

The White Mage studied her companion with quiet concern. He exhaled, lowering his arms from where they had been tightly crossed over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I won’t be able to come with you. I feel… I feel that something here is wrong. I want to stay and investigate the fortress further. Maybe I can uncover more clues on how to help the elven prince or about Astos.”

Or about the identity of our mysterious king, he thought, though he kept it to himself.

The other three exchanged uncertain glances.

“We are a team,” Pyrite said. “It is safer to remain together.”

Cinnabar opened his mouth to argue, but Jasper spoke first.

“Cinnabar is our brilliant Red Mage,” he said, his voice warm with conviction. “If he senses something is wrong, then I trust his instincts.” He met the young mage’s eyes with unwavering confidence. “We’ll retrieve the crown. You stay here and investigate. We’ll meet again at the fortress entrance in a few hours.”

Cinnabar blinked, stunned, as if struggling to believe what he had just heard.

“Th-thank you, Jasper,” he managed.

The redhead placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

“I trust you.”

They said their farewells, and Cinnabar remained alone before the looming fortress, its entrance gaping like the black maw of some ancient beast. If he was to justify their trust, he had to prove himself right. He would uncover the fortress’s secret, no matter the cost.

Without hesitation, he stepped inside. He attempted to explore the other chambers of the ancient palace, but they were sealed by a mystical lock, impossible to open even with magic. What secrets or treasures lay hidden beyond them? He pressed on, weaving past bats and shattered columns, when the echo of approaching footsteps made him freeze. Flattening himself against the wall, he watched a shadow draw closer.

It was the King. He shuffled forward, dragging his feet, his expression eerily blank. He passed by without noticing him and entered another chamber. Cinnabar quietly followed.

At the center of the room stood a crystal sphere, like a glass eye filled with swirling smoke. The king leaned over it, peering inside. The smoke shifted, changing color, until the image cleared, revealing Jasper, Pyrite, and Selenite deep within the swamp cave. A hollow, cavernous laugh tore from the man’s throat.

“Yes,” he hissed, hands twisting eagerly, “very soon the crown will be mine. And when its power joins with the crystal eye I already possess, I—Astos—will become the true Elven King!”

His laughter echoed, filling the chamber with a triumphant sound. The words sent a chill crawling down Cinnabar’s spine, like spiders skittering beneath his skin. So it had all been a trap: Astos had deceived them from the start! He had to warn the others.

Cinnabar turned to flee, when suddenly a sinister voice slithered from behind him.

“Time to sleep, little spying mouse.”

A dark cloud blossomed out of nowhere, engulfing his head. Instantly, a crushing heaviness flooded his body, and he collapsed to the ground, his cheek striking the cold stone floor.

Move, get up, you have to escape! he told himself; but his body no longer obeyed. His limbs felt weighted with lead. A suffocating drowsiness crept through him, dimming his vision and swallowing his thoughts. The last thing he saw was a pair of green-clad legs stepping into view, just before the darkness finally consumed him whole.

🗡️💰🪄⚡

After hours of fleeing from gargoyles, zombies, and werewolves, Jasper and the others finally managed to seize the lost crown from one of the deepest chambers of the swamp cave.

“Ugh, I don’t want to go back there!” Selenite groaned, exhausted, lifting the hem of her white tunic, now stained with a sickly green residue left by the monsters.

“We have what we came for. There’s no need to return, not for a long time,” Jasper replied from the front, breathing hard. “Come on, we need to meet Cinnabar before bringing the crown to the king.”

After several minutes of walking through the forest, they finally reached the Western Keep. However, their friend was nowhere to be seen. They called his name and searched the surroundings, but nothing. There was no trace of the Red Mage.

“Do you think something happened to him?” Selenite asked, her voice tight with fear as she clutched her staff to her chest.

“Maybe he’s inside,” Jasper said, already moving toward the entrance, leading the others back into the fortress.

They searched room after room, calling out again and again, but silence answered them every time. With each passing moment, worry and fear began to grow in their chests.

“Let’s check the throne room,” Pyrite suggested.

When they arrived, the chamber looked just as before: the circle of stone knights, the aged yet imposing throne—and seated upon it, the old king. At the sight of them, his once weary, sorrowful eyes flickered with a sharp, unnatural gleam.

“Give me the crown!” he demanded.

Without hesitation, Jasper climbed the steps and extended the crown. It was snatched from his hands with sudden force. The old king placed it upon his head—and then he laughed. A booming laughter filled the chamber, echoing against the stone, making the very walls tremble. A chill swept through the adventurers as the frail old man rose from the throne, his figure stretching taller, his presence suddenly intimidating and overwhelming, his eyes flashing with a blood-red light.

“You have walked straight into my trap, fools!” he sneered.

Jasper drew his sword at once, pointing it toward the transformed figure.

“Who are you—and what do you want?” His expression darkened as a realization struck him. “What did you do to our friend?!”

At the mention of Cinnabar, a strangled sound escaped Selenite. Pyrite stiffened beside her, jaw clenched and fists tightening around his weapon.

The king’s body began to twist and change. His limbs thinned and stretched until reaching an inhuman and grotesque length. His skin shifted into a sickly green hue, the color of a drowned man. His hair bleached white, spilling wildly over his shoulders, while his ears sharpened and stretched, and his fingers curved into vicious claws.

Jasper sucked in a sharp breath before whispering,

“You’re… Astos.”

Astos—the dark elf, thief of the crystal eye, the one who had cursed the elven prince and cast him into years of endless sleep—laughed again, clapping his long hands together as though applauding the most entertaining performance.

“You stand before the one true king of the elves,” he shrieked, grinning with cruel delight. “Kneel before me, wretched worms—or face your end.”

“We’ll face you!” Jasper roared, raising his sword in a battle stance.

Astos’ grin widened, his bulging eyes gleaming with malice.

“Then I hope you’re ready to face the consequences.”

One of his long arms slipped behind the throne and returned dragging a body. Jasper, Pyrite, and Selenite froze, their grips faltering as the sight before them struck them like a blow.

“Cinnabar!”

Astos held the young mage by the back of his shirt, lifting him like a ragdoll. Rough ropes bound his wrists behind him, pinning his arms to his sides. At the sight of his friends, Cinnabar’s face drained of color, his eyes wide with desperate panic.

“Mmmph!” he cried, struggling uselessly against the restraints, his warning smothered behind the cloth gag.

“Let him go!” Jasper growled, frowning, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword.

Astos gave Cinnabar a rough shake, like one might handle a kitten by the scruff.

“You want him?” he purred. “Then come and take him!”

The elf began to whisper in an archaic tongue, and soon spheres of fire flared into existence in his hands, hurtling straight toward the adventurers.

“Run, he can use magic!” Jasper shouted, diving behind one of the stone knight statues. The flaming orb grazed past him, crashing into the wall where his head had been a moment before, leaving behind nothing but a charred black mark.

Astos burst into mocking laughter, darting across the room while manhandling Cinnabar like a ragdoll. Fire and lightning spells rained down relentlessly, forcing the adventurers to remain hidden, pinned in place with no opening to strike back.

“What do we do?” Pyrite muttered through clenched teeth. Though he fought to stay composed, desperation flickered plainly in his gray eyes.

Jasper clenched his teeth, feeling his hands tremble. Every instinct screamed at him to charge forward and crush that Astos’ face in with a punch; but the sight of Cinnabar in his grasp, helpless and exposed, froze him in place as surely as any spell.

“Come out, come out of your holes, little worms!” Astos sang. “Entertain me—or I’ll have to entertain myself with my new toy.”

Cinnabar’s muffled cries cut through the chaos, each one twisting into Selenite’s chest like a blade. Always the healer, the one supporting from behind, she felt useless, forced to watch as her friend dangled in the claws of their enemy. From behind her column, she tracked Astos’ movements, watching Jasper and Pyrite struggle to even draw near under the barrage of spells.

There has to be a way to defeat this villain, she thought desperately. For a brief instant, her gaze met Cinnabar’s.

“Mmnph! Mmnph!”

He strained against his bonds, trying to tell her something, but the gag and the thunder of magic swallowed his voice. However, it was then that it struck her: Why gag a mage? Astos had already revealed himself—there was nothing left for Cinnabar to warn them about. So why silence him?

The answer came to her in a sudden, almost divine, clarity. Catching Jasper and Pyrite’s attention with urgent gestures, she leaned close and whispered:

“Distract him, I have an idea!”

Pyrite gave a sharp nod, relaying the plan. Seconds later, both he and Jasper burst from cover, weapons drawn, launching quick, calculated attacks before retreating again to evade the storm of spells. Astos leapt and twisted with unnatural agility, at times yanking Cinnabar in front of him like a human shield, forcing the adventurers to pull back or risk striking their own companion.

Before the situation could spiral further, Selenite closed her eyes and began to chant, forcing her mind into focus. If she miscast or if she struck the wrong target…

Astos left himself open for the briefest moment and Selenite shouted:

“MUTIS!”

The spell took hold instantly. Astos’ laughter died mid-breath, his incantations cut off as silence seized his throat. He froze, clawed hand flying to his neck, confusion flashing across his face as no sound emerged from his mouth.

It was all the opening they needed. In a swift, precise motion, Pyrite lunged forward and severed the arm that held Cinnabar. At the same instant, Jasper leapt high and brought his blade down in a clean, decisive arc, cutting through Astos’ neck in a single strike.

The dark elf collapsed, his massive body crashing against the stone, blood spilling across the floor. Heavy silence followed, broken only by the ragged breathing of the four adventurers.

“Cinnabar!”

While Jasper ensured their enemy was truly dead, wiping his blade clean, Pyrite rushed to cut the ropes binding the Red Mage. Selenite quickly removed the gag.

“Guys, are you—?!” Cinnabar barely managed before being pulled into a tight group embrace.

“Thank the gods you’re alright!” Selenite cried, her eyes brimming with tears. “Did he hurt you? Do you need healing?”

“I—I’m fine,” Cinnabar replied, stiff with uncertainty, unaccustomed to such displays of physical affection.

“What happened?” Pyrite asked, slipping back into his steady, professional tone.

“Astos caught me,” Cinnabar explained. “He must have realized I’d uncovered his disguise… and when I tried to escape, he cast Sleep on me…”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Jasper said, offering him a bright, relieved smile as his usual optimism returned.

They left the throne room, and Cinnabar guided them to the chamber where the crystal eye rested. Jasper retrieved it, securing it safely among their belongings.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we should bring this to that old witch Matoya. Hurry, we must go get the cure for the prince.”

With their enemy defeated, the adventurers set out once more, beginning their journey back to Elfeim.

"I think I should go now," Reyvren said, standing up and stretching his wings. "I don’t want to leave my grandmother alone preparing dinner."

"Alright, say hello to her for me," Teklómenes replied in turn.

The other boy’s cheeks flushed. His pale face always took on a warmer color when he was with the young avian.

"Okay. Goodbye, see you later!"

The friends said their goodbyes, glad for having each other’s company. Meanwhile, far from that place, someone with darker intentions watched through a spyglass as the two youths separated. A malevolent smile crept across a face.

It was time to act.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Reyvren was walking calmly through the village when he accidentally bumped into someone else.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, embarrassed. The things that happened to him for walking around lost in thought…

"Don’t apologize," a rough voice replied.

When he looked up, Reyvren found a drakón smiling at him with malice, much taller and broader than him. Discreetly, the stranger held a knife in his hand, the tip level with Reyvren’s navel. "Why don’t we go for a walk?"

The boy felt his stomach drop. He glanced to the sides. The wide street was almost empty; no one was paying attention to him. Nothing in his attacker’s relaxed posture raised suspicion, who, leaning forward, gave the impression of engaging him in an intimate conversation. The tip of the knife pressed into Reyvren’s abdomen, not enough to break skin, but enough to send a chill through him at the clear threat.

"Shall we?"

With trembling legs, the young man let himself be guided through several streets until they left the village, heading into the wide fields along the slope. The sun had already finished setting behind the mountain when they stopped in front of an old, enormous barn. Two other drakones were waiting there, accompanied by a shepherd warg.

"Looks like it was easy," one of them commented, not taking his mocking, predatory gaze off Reyvren before he was thrown inside the barn.

"Who are you?! What do you want from me?!" the boy exclaimed, facing his captors. Even though inside he was dying of fear, he tried to appear brave.

The three drakones exchanged looks and laughed.

"The less you resist," one of them said, pulling out several coils of rope, "the less it’ll hurt."

What followed happened very quickly. The three strangers lunged at Reyvren, who, without training and unable even to use the power of fire to protect himself, could do very little to defend himself. Cornered and outmatched in both number and size, his enemies subdued him in no time, pinning him against the ground while rough hands yanked his arms behind his back. Coarse rope bound his wrists, legs, and wings, tightened painfully to the point of agony.

Once he was tightly bound, they dragged him to the back of the barn and threw him onto a pile of hay. Reyvren struggled, but only managed to hurt himself against the coarse rope.

"Why are you doing this?!" he cried, blinking several times to keep the panic tears that threatened to blur his vision at bay. "Let me go! What do you want from me?"

"What would we want with a filthy half-drakón?" one of his captors mocked, crouching at his level. "We don’t want you, we want your little friend. The prince."

In that moment, Reyvren felt true terror. The reality of the situation struck him like a devastating lightning bolt from the sky.

He was bait.

"What do you want with him?" he asked, but he knew it was useless. They had captured him to lure Teklómenes. And he knew, with absolute certainty, that the avian would come without hesitation if he found out his friend was in danger.

"We’re tired of this life of herding goats," one of the drakones said. "We want easy money. Before the crown can catch us, we’ll already be far away with the ransom."

No, this couldn’t be happening.

"He’ll know it’s a trap!" Reyvren insisted desperately.

The three drakones exchanged looks again and laughed.

"Good thing you won’t be able to tell him anything to warn him."

"No, wait, ple-mnph!"

A cloth with a thick knot in the middle was forced between his teeth and tied behind his head, painfully pulling at several strands of his long black hair. One of his captors began rummaging through the bag they had taken from him and pulled out a small round mirror: the magic mirror Queen Freyra had given him to communicate with Teklómenes.

"Time to call your little friend," one of the drakones said.

The reflective surface of the mirror began to grow increasingly opaque, as if a thick fog lay behind it, before it faded and Teklómenes’ face appeared on the other side.

"Reyvren, are you—?" The prince cut himself off when he saw the image on the other side of the mirror, the feathers at the sides of his head bristling. One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by one of his horns and lifted his head, while with the other hand he placed the tip of a knife right below his eye.

"We have your friend, Your Highness. If you want him back alive, you’ll have to pay for it."

Bound and gagged, with no way whatsoever to warn his only friend about the trap, Reyvren listened as the criminals gave instructions on how much gold to bring and the location where to leave it.

"You have one hour, Your Highness. Otherwise the damned half-breed will be dead."

"Mmph!"

Reyvren shook his head, but seeing Teklómenes’ terrified and pained face through the mirror only shattered what little strength he had left. He didn’t want his friend to be captured, but he didn’t want to die either.

"I’ll do it," Teklómenes said in a hard voice. "You’d better not touch a single hair on his head before I get there, or you’ll regret it."

"We’ll be waiting, Your Highness."

And with that, the connection between the mirrors vanished. The drakones left the barn, leaving Reyvren alone, with the warg at the door as the only guard. There, alone on a pile of hay, he allowed himself to shed the first tears of helplessness.

~🪶🔥🪶🔥~

Teklómenes felt his mind tearing itself apart between destructive fury and suffocating fear. He had taken the gold he found and flown in the direction the kidnappers had indicated. He told no one, not even Freyra, for he feared for Reyvren’s safety. The kidnappers had made it clear that if he didn’t arrive in time, alone, and with the gold, they would kill his friend.

And he would not allow himself to lose him, not when he was the first and only one he had.

He arrived in front of an old barn, in an area of the kingdom used for raising mountain goats. There he saw three drakones waiting beside a warg. He recognized them from the mirror and knew he had reached the right place.

No sooner had he landed than he threw the sack of gold onto the ground at their feet.

"Here it is," he said sharply. "Now release my friend."

The drakones exchanged knowing looks. One of them took the sack, while another walked to the barn door and removed a huge lock.

"Go get him yourself," they told him.

Without needing to be told twice, Teklómenes pushed the door open and stepped inside. The interior of the structure was empty except for some old wooden crates and tools in a corner. And at the back, on a mattress of hay, a body. Shining red scales stood out faintly in the dimness of dusk.

"Reyvren!"

Teklómenes ran to his friend. The addressed one lifted his head, his pupils blown wide into a tiny point in the middle of his large light-blue eyes.

"Mmm, gmh mph phmm!" Reyvren cried out, his warnings muffled behind the gag, shaking his head frantically.

Teklómenes needed a second to understand, but when he did, it was already too late: the three drakones had him surrounded and lunged at him.

He fought, of course he did, striking noses with his elbows, hitting ribs and stomachs with wings and fists, scratching skin and scales with his claws; but in the end he was still a young avian against three large, seasoned drakones. The battle was doomed to fail.

"You walked right into our trap, little bird," one of the drakones said, while the other two forced Teklómenes to the ground.

"Bastards," the avian growled through his teeth. Coarse rope had already begun binding his wrists, wings, and legs. "What do you want?"

"Simple, we want money. And we’re sure the Queen will pay very well to see her chick safe and sound again."

The knots were secured. Teklómenes struggled, but he was firmly restrained. It would be impossible for him to escape on his own.

"Good, we have the boy. Time to kill the half-breed."

One of the drakones grabbed Reyvren by the horns and began dragging him out of the barn. At his waist he carried a large butchering knife.

"H-hey, wait!" Teklómenes shouted, something tightening painfully in his chest. Reyvren had his eyes squeezed shut, but he could see the tears clinging to his lashes and hear his quick, shaking breaths. "You already caught me! Why do you want to kill him?"

"He’s already served his purpose," one of his captors replied, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. "We don’t need a useless half-breed. If we let him go, that would ruin our plans. So the easiest thing is to silence him forever."

A broken sob escaped from Reyvren’s throat, and Teklómenes knew he had to do something.

"The Queen will pay for him!" he exclaimed. "Leave him alive, and I know she’ll pay his ransom too. Whatever you planned to ask for me, ask double for both, and I know she’ll agree."

The truth was that Teklómenes had no idea if that would work. He didn’t want Freyra to yield to the demands of these wretched criminals, but he was not going to lose his friend, not now, not like this.

The drakones exchanged looks again and discussed the matter as if their two prisoners were not even there.

"It could work. And we avoid having to get rid of a body."

"Alright. He can live."

"But if we don’t receive that extra money, we’ll kill him and sell his parts."

Having reached a decision, they dragged both young men back to the pile of hay. A piece of cloth with a knot in the middle was shoved into Teklómenes’ mouth and tied behind his head, cutting off any further sound. Once the barn door was closed, the two boys were left alone. Teklómenes twisted on the hay until he managed to sit with his back against the wall. Could there be any way to escape before the ransom was demanded? His thoughts were interrupted by a series of soft, broken sobs, barely audible. He turned his head and saw Reyvren, his body curled tightly in on itself. His shoulders trembled faintly.

The avian boy couldn’t help the sharp ache in his chest. All of this was his fault. Reyvren had been taken just to trap him, used as bait for him. Teklómenes was used to walking a narrow line over danger; but Reyvren didn’t deserve any of this.

He leaned forward and gently bumped his head against Reyvren’s to get his attention. Maybe his captors had taken his voice, and his hands were bound behind his back, but he wanted to do something, anything, to comfort his friend. After a moment, Reyvren lifted his face. His light-blue eyes, heavy with guilt and humiliation, avoided Teklómenes’ yellow ones for a moment, and when he finally dared to meet them, the tears only fell harder. Teklómenes understood that feeling all too well.

As best they could, they shifted on the hay, sitting side by side. They didn’t know if there was any way to escape their fate unharmed, whether the Queen would pay for their freedom or they would find another way out. But if there was anything good in all that darkness, it was that at least they still had each other to hold onto.

Part 2? 👀

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