BLAZING SHADOW

Shadows of Desolation

The walls of Sion Castle echoed with a hollow silence, mirroring Elvira's desolate existence within its cold embrace. As Rohan immersed himself in the preparations for war, his once comforting presence became a mere illusion, a phantom that haunted her thoughts.

Left to her own devices, Elvira withered away in the depths of isolation. The harem women, fueled by their envy and bitterness, seized every opportunity to unleash their cruelty upon her. Night after night, their fists and feet struck her frail body, leaving behind bruises and welts as painful reminders of their disdain.

The torment was relentless, a ceaseless assault upon her already weakened form. Elvira's body became a canvas of suffering, each blow a brushstroke of agony. The bruises painted her skin in hues of deep purples and sickly yellows, a testament to the violence inflicted upon her.

Denied sustenance, Elvira's hunger gnawed at her, her body growing weak and emaciated. The meager rations that once sustained her were now withheld, leaving her stomach empty and her spirit hollow. With each passing day, her energy waned, and the strength she once possessed faded like a distant memory.

The room to which she had been banished was a forsaken corner of the castle, an abandoned tower where musty air clung to her every breath. The stench of neglect permeated the damp walls, mingling with the scent of decay. The chill that hung in the air cut through her like icy daggers, seeping into her bones and causing her to shiver uncontrollably.

Elvira's refuge had become a desolate prison, stripped of comfort and warmth. The furniture was sparse and dilapidated, offering no solace from the harsh reality of her existence. The threadbare straw pallet on which she lay provided little cushioning, serving as a constant reminder of her lowly status and the absence of care.

Desperate to protect herself, Elvira resorted to barricading her door each night with chairs and pieces of furniture salvaged from her meager surroundings. It was a feeble attempt to find a sliver of safety within the confines of her prison, to shield herself from the unknown terrors that lurked beyond.

Fear consumed her during the daylight hours, paralyzing her with the constant threat of harm. The castle corridors, once bustling with life, now felt like treacherous paths where danger could spring forth at any moment. Elvira dared not venture out, for the vengeful eyes of her tormentors followed her every move, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

And so, she remained confined within the crumbling walls, her world reduced to the confines of that desolate tower. The days blurred into an endless cycle of loneliness and despair, her spirit dimming with each passing moment. She clung to the fragments of her own resilience, the only flicker of light in the abyss of her existence.

With desperation as her companion, Elvira fortified her meager sanctuary. She gathered what little furniture she had, piling it against the door in a feeble attempt to keep the tormentors at bay. The creaking hinges and creaking wood provided little solace, but she clung to the semblance of safety it offered, a fragile shield against the cruelty of her captors.

Daylight became her enemy, as the outside world morphed into a realm of treachery and danger. Elvira dared not venture beyond her barricaded chamber, fearing the wrath of those who sought to harm her. The once vibrant halls of the castle now carried an ominous air, their shadows concealing hidden threats that lurked in every corner.

Sleep offered no respite from her torment. Nightmares plagued her weary mind, painting vivid pictures of war-torn landscapes and rivers of blood. Flames danced before her eyes, their searing heat scorching her soul with a relentless onslaught of despair. She woke each morning, drenched in sweat, her heart pounding in her chest, the echoes of her tortured dreams haunting her waking hours.

Meanwhile, Rohan, burdened with the weight of his kingdom's suffering, was consumed by a relentless pursuit to protect his people. News of the Light Elves' relentless raids filled his ears, each report a dagger to his heart. The prophet, once their beacon of guidance, remained elusive, and Rohan's desperation grew with each passing day. He felt the poison of powerlessness coursing through his veins, his every decision tainted by the bitterness of his failing defenses.

The prophet was their best chance to survive. When their prophet was alive they could prepare and protect their cities and villages before they light elves could strike , now it was almost impossible. 

In the depths of their individual anguish, Elvira and Rohan were prisoners of their circumstances. Elvira's body bore the marks of her torment, her once radiant spirit dimmed by the unrelenting cruelty she endured. Rohan, haunted by the cries of his people and the weight of their expectations, felt his soul wither under the oppressive burden of leadership.

With every village that fell, every life that was lost, Rohan's determination to retaliate burned fiercer within him.