Chapter 2

As I looked up, the four towers loomed enormous before me, the Dominion's banners draping ominously from their sides. Our carriage stopped at the gate, and before I could take in the sight, Elamoril pulled me down with a cold glare that cut deeper than any blade.

"Is that all?" an elf at the gate asked, pointing at us—children orphaned for reasons beyond our understanding. Years later, I would grasp why they inflicted such horror on us. In their twisted logic, they believed they were forging us into something stronger.

Leaning toward Elamoril, I whispered, "What are they going to do to us?"

His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his response. "I don’t know. But as long as we stick together, we can survive and return home."

His naive hope mirrored mine. Maybe, just maybe, if we played along and endured everything, we could earn our freedom.

What we failed to realize was that we had been torn from our home for good. "Donations," the Altmer had called us, and donations were never returned.

I vividly recall our first night in that castle with its four imposing towers. Inside, it was not as dark and foreboding as the exterior suggested. The walls were adorned with dark blue and golden wallpaper, and shelves brimming with books and candles lined the hall. Marble staircases, four on each wall of the hall, glimmered with a golden hue in the soft light. I felt a fleeting sense of astonishment.

We were led down the stairs, and it was then that Elamoril and I were separated for the first time. We were taken down different staircases to a bathhouse as elegant as the hall above. For a moment, I felt a temporary relief from the grief of losing my family. We were given clean beds, fresh clothes, and, surprisingly, separate rooms. After years of living in the small, crowded home with my family, I felt a profound loneliness in that spacious room.

As I surveyed the space, a single tear slipped down my face, its trace cold as winter.

"Get dressed and leave the room in five minutes."

The first command echoed through the hall. The first of many to come.

We obeyed, and five minutes later, all the doors of the wide hallway swung open. We were given dark blue trousers and white tunics adorned with golden stripes on the sleeves and shoulders. New and comfortable boots and leather gloves we were given also surprisingly became the most comfortable things I had ever worn.

As I looked in the mirror after dressing, I felt like a different person. These clothes were nothing like the rags I used to wear.

We were all taken back to the hall, now filled with children and teens of various ages. They wore similar clothes but in different colors, their faces showing a range of emotions as they stared at us.

Hate, disgust, resentment. I didn't recognize those expressions until I saw them in their eyes.

In the center, on a small stage, stood a rostrum with an elderly Altmer behind it. His gaze held an expression I couldn’t yet name.

As we lined up, I saw Elamoril on the opposite side with other male mer. His smile rekindled my heartbeat, and I couldn’t help but smile back, reminded of my home.

"Welcome to Clamcora," the elder Altmer's voice was deep but devoid of warmth.

"You are here under the order of the Dominion. This is your family and home from now on. You are all descended from the blood of our cousins who re-founded it with us. Today, we once more accept your contribution to our cause with great pride. For many years, you will be trained to serve the interests of the Thalmor and our great Dominion. Be proud of yourselves, be proud of our Dominion.

Now eat, drink, and be in bed at the designated time. For tomorrow, you will begin a journey that will test you, improve you, and make you the best you can be."

As he finished, his eyes gleamed with a golden hue, and his fist clenched around the edge of the rostrum. He knew many of us were too young to understand his words, but he also knew that the more he repeated them, the more we would believe. And then, serve blindly.

From that day forward, my life was never the same.

As I lay on my bed, crying, all I wished for was to return home. To the green. But every time I opened my eyes, all I saw was the endless darkness threatening to consume me.

After that night, I cried each and every night that followed.

The first year was the harshest. We had to get used to eating all kinds of food. Objections were dismissed whenever we were offered vegetables. The Thalmor didn’t care about the pact of the Bosmer outside Valenwood. All that mattered to them was that we ate everything on our plates. Eating vegetables often made most of us sick, but refusing food meant punishment.

We learned what punishment was in our first week when an instructor beat an initiate with his belt for being late. None of us dared to break the rules after that.

We endured hours of lectures about the Thalmor, their beliefs in mer supremacy, and their enemies. But deep down, we knew nothing would change what they had done to us.

I hated that first year, barely catching glimpses of Elamoril during physical and weapon training.

My curse, as it turned out, was the bow.

The Thalmor knew that the Bosmer were unparalleled with the bow. Thus, I was pushed into more intense training to match their expectations. My mother always said that the bow was a weapon that made the Bosmer feared, that it was part of our very essence. I believed her, when I had seen young children wield the bow effortlessly, as if it were an extension of their arm, something innate.

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But there I was, unable to draw an arrow.

"Try again," my instructor would always say, keeping me in class long after everyone else had left.

I remember countless days and nights spent training with the bow.

The harshness of the first year perhaps made the following years more bearable. But after a year of denial and futile attempts to find a way out, many of us nearly gave up.

The second and third years were grueling, with our physical training becoming more demanding each day. Yet, there was some comfort in sharing this burden with Elamoril and the others. Whenever we managed to meet, he would eagerly recount his latest escape plans. I would listen with rapt attention, always fascinated by his ingenuity and relentless spirit. By the end of the second year, Elamoril had memorized every corner of the castle—except for the restricted areas. His meticulous plans were filled with such fervor and optimism that his smile was a rare beacon of warmth in our grim surroundings.

As the years went by, we were introduced to Thalmor magic. To my surprise, I found that channeling and focusing my magic through ice was the easiest for me. It was far easier to control than fire, responding to my commands with a fluid grace. Elamoril’s excitement matched my own when I shared this discovery with him, adding a spark of hope to our otherwise bleak days.

By the end of the fifth year, many of us had been thoroughly indoctrinated, becoming mere instruments for advancing the Thalmor’s interests across Tamriel. I had gained some confidence with the bow, but it still felt foreign, as though it didn’t truly belong to me. I excelled more with melee weapons like short swords and daggers. My slender frame and years of rigorous training made me swift; my body could twist and turn with ease, yet remained resilient. During our rare moments of free time, we were allowed to visit the libraries and gardens, always under the vigilant watch of the Altmer guards. Elamoril and I would seek solace beneath the trees and his hidden spots, reminiscing about our childhood and the home we had lost. Our conversations were a mix of laughter and tears, as we witnessed each other’s growth and transformation over the years.

In our sixth year, we were informed that we would begin active duty. This meant occasionally leaving the castle to carry out the Thalmor’s grim tasks such as interrogations, abductions, theft and more. I could never forget my first active duty, when I was tasked with handing tools to a torturer as he worked on some Nords untill they died screaming. Over time, the ghastly scenes and the ceaseless tide of blood became a grim routine. Each year, the horrors grew more intense, and I wrestled with sleepless nights, my mind plagued by dread of the duties to come.

I often wondered how things could possibly get worse—and then they did.

Hands, countless hands, groped me in the darkness.

By the seventh year, when I was nearly sixteen, I could feel the eyes of others following me as I walked the halls. Elamoril had grown into a formidable figure, his once youthful frame now muscular, his amber hair flowing longer, and his eyes, once ablaze, now tempered with a solemn calm.

In our eighth year, he devised the perfect escape plan. We were assigned to an active duty escorting prisoners to the Cidhna Mine. The Thalmor, ever eager to flaunt their might, always dispatched their soldiers in such missions. Elamoril instructed me to remain close and silent until he had dealt with the rest of the escort and the prisoners. Then, we would seize our chance to flee and return to the land we once called home.

I was seized by terror—not at the plan itself, but at the realization that, after eight grueling years, Elamoril still clung to the hope of returning to a place that no longer felt like home to me.

In the solitude of my thoughts, I replayed that fateful day over and over. Among the myriad horrors I had witnessed, the image of my mother’s cold, lifeless face as I was torn from her side haunted me most. I remembered searching her eyes for a glimmer of love or bravery, but all I saw was the spark of courage that had vanished with the mention of my brothers—her only treasures.

We were outfitted in gleaming golden elven armor, which shimmered with even the faintest light. Looking upon myself in that armor, I felt no thrill. Perhaps, like the others, I was simply too exhausted to feel any excitement anymore. We had become like automatons—crafted to follow orders, to serve the will of our makers, and always at the risk of being discarded for a more refined model.

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4E, 194

“Halt,” the guard called from within the watchtower as we neared the gate of Clamcora.

“What is it, Rohlan?” Elamoril’s voice held an edge of impatience.

“I heard Alhonir sent you and Snowleaf on a babysitting mission.”

Ah, Snowleaf. I missed her dearly.

“That’s not her name,” Elamoril retorted, his voice cold as ice. “And yes, we have duty. Open the gate.”

Rohlan scoffed, dismissing the matter as he moved to raise the gate.

Once reached our meeting point, we joined the group of prisoners and the guards of the Imperial Legion. With another Thalmor.

“It’s time you joined us,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. Though only a few years older, he was eager to assert his supposed superiority. “I was getting rather bored with these—”

“Surely you were expecting better company,” Elamoril cut him off.

The Altmer’s gaze flickered briefly toward me, and I caught a fleeting, fiery glint in his golden eyes before he returned to his arrogant facade. “This will have to do,” he said dismissively.

“I am Ondolemar,” he announced with undue pride. “I have business in the Keep.”

“And we are to guard you on this journey?” Elamoril’s amusement was barely concealed. “It seems rather unusual for an important officer to travel with prisoners.”

I couldn’t suppress a soft chuckle.

The road stretched over two days, and our first night was spent at Fort Sungard. The Imperials, their faces twisted in thinly veiled disdain, filled the fort’s halls. Three Thalmor in an Imperial fort. At sixteen, I wasn’t naive; if given the chance, the Imperials would have made sure we never left.

“We have only two rooms available for the Thalmor,” a soldier declared with a detached tone after the Imperials retired to their bunks and the prisoners were herded into the dungeons.

“There are three of us,” Ondolemar said, crossing his arms, frustration etching his features.

“We were informed of only two Thalmor,” the soldier shot back, irritation in his voice. “We prepared only two rooms. Do you want them or not?” His gaze pierced Ondolemar’s before shifting to me.

“Just give me one of the keys,” Elamoril interjected swiftly. "We’ll take one, and you can have the other.” He handed one key to Ondolemar, who took it with a cold, scrutinizing look.

As Elamoril and I made our way to our assigned room, I began to unbuckle the bracers of my armor. The room was basic— a simple bed stood in the center, with a small table by the window.

“Eh,” he shrugged, “we’ve seen worse.”

"Far worse." I agreed.

He began to shed his armor too, and soon we were lying side by side on the narrow bed.

“Soon,” he whispered, his voice a tender promise. His eyes, green as the depths of our forest home, met mine with unspoken reassurance. “Soon, we’ll return home.”

I wanted to respond, but the words were trapped in my throat, my heart aching with unspoken longing. It was then that I first felt the frantic pounding beneath my chest.

My feelings for Elamoril had evolved, deepened, and matured as we had. I trusted him implicitly, even though I was no longer the frightened girl he had once tried to save. I still needed him, more than I could admit.

“Are you having second thoughts?” His voice broke through the silence.

“Of course not.”

His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”

To be continued...