Pollyanna was two days away from the tower in where Eory was being kept. She had been travelling for twelve long years after she had escaped from her own prison--a prison that lay hundreds of miles away from the kingdom of Maribel. The prison was one of the most secure prisons on Yharos, and it lay in the dwarven kingdom of Ghar.

She was tired and haggard. She had been ever since her body had frozen at the age of fifty so long ago. Her hair that was once as black as midnight and shone like stars upon the sea was now gray and ragged; her skin that was once soft like silk was now wrinkled and the texture of sand. But the thing that made her the most tired, was the monotonous boredom that seemed to hold her mind captive of late. She had been doing the same thing for her whole life--protecting the Arrozan Royal Family that had dethroned the previous human king over a century ago, and it was beginning to bore her, even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself. She was never unhappy with her lot in life; she was saved by one of Eory’s ancestors long, long ago and she had loved defending his family ever since.

After her convent had been burned down, Fjorn--Eory’s ancestry--had offered her glory and a name on a silver platter; but it came with a price as all things with magic do. She had never regretted that price. Never in her life. But to convince herself of that fact, she had to think to herself over and over again,  I have no regrets. I got what I wanted.

But Pollyanna was exhausted, regardless of how she felt about protecting the Arrozan Royal Family. Whatever spark and passion that once lay in her soul was fast going out. She was grumpy and testy, she had been for many years now, and when she escaped the dwarven prison, she had spent many nights drinking away her woes while simultaneously trying to find information on where Eory was being kept. 

As she looked up at the tower where Eory was being kept--it’s silhouette looming far in the distance--rain dotted her haggard face. She felt her age for the first time in her life.

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Twelve years ago, when Eory lived in Castle Maribel, he found his older brother--Gershom-- sitting alone in the garden under the shade of an ash tree. He was biting his arm until it bled—it was a long-time tick of the Arrozan Royal Family to do so. He sat next to his brother, and his brother told him something he would never forget.

“What are you doing out here alone?” Eory asked.

And his big brother looked up at the sky wistfully, replying, “Enjoying the last vestiges of my freedom…”

Eory noticed that his hands were red and bloody. Gershom hid them within his big sleeves when his little brother noticed them.

Eory cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Gershom met his eyes with a bottomless look of sinking pain on his face that Eory would never forget. “This flesh has become my prison. There’s no way out.”

Eory didn’t understand, but his brother hung his head in shame and wept.

Days later, Eory wept bitter tears when his parents told him that the family dog was dead.

Eory was roused from his reverie as the sound of rain dripping filled his ears. He stared up at the ceiling, watching it drizzle expressionlessly. He couldn’t get that memory out of his head as it mixed and mingled restlessly with his own thoughts of harming Kori.

Eory looked around his tiny room, feeling suffocated and short of breath; frustrated and extremely lonely.

His brother was right. There was no way out of this prison.

He took deep breaths continuously until he felt light-headed. His heartbeat felt off. Hot blood pounded relentlessly in his ears. 

He bit into his arm, trying to distract himself.