Forsaken by Shadows 59: Masked

~24. Masked~

Torafein

Ivory had made a fatal mistake. 

He didn’t kill Crysla. 

Perhaps if he had, Torafein would have broken. Isolated and alone, with no soldier to protect and no hope of ever making it back to Launa, the old Legend might have surrendered to the bleak thoughts ever present on the edge of his mind. There would have been nothing to live for, and dead with secrets was better than alive under threat of one day sharing what he knew. 

But Crysla was alive. Her occasional shrieks were proof enough, and nothing, not torture, not pride, not the overwhelming desire to see his family again, motivated Torafein to escape quite like sound of her misery and his inability to do anything to stop it. 

Before, she’d been brought back. They’d had the comfort of one another’s presence, the warmth of each other’s skin, and idle conversation to pass the desolate moments. He’d known what was happening to her because she could tell him, and the same was happening to him.

But now she was kept away from him. Elsewhere. Somewhere in the darkness where he couldn’t reach her. Without her words to assure him she was alright, his imagination filled in the details on their own, and his heart was a deep, dark pit. 

Crysla was still alive, and Torafein was going to save her. 

To that end, he was glad to be left alone. His captors seemed to be losing interest in him, hardly bothering him at all anymore. Aside from the meager rations left for his consumption, just enough to keep him on the cusp of life without satisfying the ever-present gnawing of hunger in his gut, he seldom received any form of elven interaction.

If Torafein had been anyone else, it might have been devastating. But he was a Legend, and legends didn’t become so without staining their hands. The tactics used against him was an art he was well versed in, a science he’d once made careful study of. And though understanding the abuse didn’t make it any less awful to endure, it did keep him from spiraling beyond the grasp of sanity. 

Step one, abduct your subject. Bewitching him against his own soldiers had been a particularly nasty twist, but there was nothing to be done about it now. They were dead, and he would grieve and atone for them with Crysla’s life.

Step two, debase your subject. The torture, the hair-shaving, and the animal-like prison all fulfilled those requirements. Basic, textbook misery. He could have ordered it in his sleep. 

Step three, take away all of the subject’s comforts, but one. His clothing, his necessities, his peace. But he’d still had Crysla. 

They were in the final phase now. The phase where that last hope was stripped from him, where his final comfort had been removed. Torafein was forced to know she still existed beyond his reach. Crysla was probably fed lies that he was dead. Two different strategies mining for the same results. 

Dejection. Perhaps a mental unraveling, and total surrender. He was supposed to miss his one comfort so much he was willing to trade anything for it, even his own soul.

Thus far, it had only fueled his hatred further. Torafein was going to destroy these elves, starting with the warlock.

The first stage of any well-designed plan began with a careful inventory of the tools one had to work with. When Crysla shared his prison cave, he’d believed all they had was what little information they could glean. Now that he’d had ample time to consider it, he realized there was far more at his disposal.

He had atrophy and isolation, both of which could be weaponized.

Torafein sat hunched over, cradling his bound hands between his chest and his thighs, his attention carefully cast on a stalagmite jutting up not far from his cage. Should anyone be skulking invisibly through his prison, they would see only the shell of a warrior rocking back and forth in his gloom. 

Mental unraveling. Check.

Yet hidden from the view of wandering eyes, he twisted the chains around his wrist, tugging experimentally against the bulge of his hand. After endless cycles of starvation and wasting away, he could almost get them around the bulk of his knuckles. His bones, unfortunately, wouldn’t shrink with decrepitude, and he needed his joints intact for his plan. There would be no dislocating or breaking of his hands for quicker results. But he was content to wait, treading the delicate balance of fading away just enough to slip his bonds, while still remaining capable of killing. 

Infrared motion at the entrance of the cave caused him to still, as the red blur resolved into the form of Toloruel, bringing him his scraps. A minor disappointment; Ivory was a more interesting host. He held more enthusiasm for Torafein’s condition than Toloruel did, always inquiring after his health and wellbeing. 

Ivory’s confidence and optimism made him easier to fool. He wanted Torafein to break. Toloruel, on the other hand, rightfully assumed Torafein was cut from the same cloth as himself. He understood that it would take uncommon pressure to bend his will. 

Which meant Torafein’s act had to be nigh unbreakable.

He remained hunched over, staring vacantly at the ground as Toloruel approached, endeavoring to appear as the all textbooks said he ought. The wicked drow tossed a worn and cracked pouch, along with a leaking waterskin, at Torafein’s scabbed feet. The waterskin burst at the seams, gushing precious, lifesaving liquid all over the stone. 

Yet Torafein didn’t move, though his thirst howled to be sated and his stomach roiled for sustenance. He continued to act as though he had no knowledge of Toloruel’s presence. 

“Eat,” Toloruel commanded, for he could not leave Torafein in possession of the leather. Anything could become a weapon with a little creativity, and Torafein’s risk to himself was just as great a threat as his risk to others. They wouldn’t want him to make his own decisions about when his life ended. 

The scent of fresh water was almost too alluring to ignore, but Torafein remained disciplined in his lack of reaction. Icy rivulets flowed in and around his toes, tantalizing him with thoughts of a full-body submersion that would cleanse him of filth and dried blood, and maybe relieve the burning of his more recent wounds. 

Yet still he did not move. The act must be believed.

After a moment, Toloruel raised his boot and thrashed the cage, the rattle jarring in the dead quiet. “I said eat, wretch.” 

Torafein flinched and raised his hands defensively, as if he feared the threat of receiving the heel of Toloruel’s boot in his jaw. The way he’d so often seen his own prisoners react, in his former life, all those centuries ago. He peered up at Toloruel, blinking slowly, as if seeing him for the first time. 

Toloruel bared his teeth, a hand going to the black-bladed sword strapped to his thigh. “Eat, or your suffering will increase.” 

With slow, measured movements, Torafein reached for the pouch, never taking his eyes off Toloruel. He painted fear and contrition in every line of his body language, willing his captor to read it and believe, to let his guard down ever so slightly, until he neglected to bother with it again. 

Once his fingers brushed the leather, Torafein snapped into action, snatching it up and devouring the contents—raw, shriveled mushrooms—as though he feared Toloruel would change his mind and take his rations away. When it was done, he threw the pouch aside and dove for the waterskin, gulping down what remained in the broken vessel. 

Toloruel watched it all with a look of disgust. Yet whether he was disgusted with Torafein’s condition or his shame-filled performance, Torafein couldn’t say. Toloruel hardly spoke, and between his silence and his dead eyes, his thoughts remained a mystery. Either way, it was imperative that Torafein didn’t break character and offer his enemy’s shrewd observation anything to feast on. 

So when Toloruel commanded him to return the leather, Torafein refused, trying to hoard it, even gnawing on the mushroom pouch as though he could devour that, too. 

In the end, he received a black eye from the pommel of Toloruel’s sword and lost his scraps of leather, but Torafein was satisfied. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking as Toloruel stalked away, rage etched into the set of his shoulders. Hunched over once more, Torafein worked the chains around his wrists, and failed to hide his smile when the coils slid further than they ever had before. 

***

Torafein’s rest was shattered by shrieking, but the voice wasn’t Crysla’s. Somewhere out in the main cavern, Mindra hurled abuses at the men who followed her, calling them all manner of unrepeatable names. These outbursts of her temper were growing more and more frequent, and served as his periodic amusement. She was rather inventive in her choice of metaphors, and Torafein hadn’t softened so much that he cringed away from profane language, as many other reformed Launites had. Especially when that language was aimed at those who had managed to wriggle their way into ‘most hated’ in his heart. 

He breathed in contentedly as Mindra rained her wrath on their supposed ineptitude, blaming them for the lack of progress in their hunt. More out of habit than expectancy, Torafein tested the quality of his muscles against the tension of his restraints.

Not quite there yet. But soon. 

The tirade continued, and Torafein settled back. He certainly didn’t miss those days, when he could be insulted by a woman just for breathing and slain if he dared defend himself. How Ivory and Toloruel put up with it, he could only wonder. Especially when there would be no witnesses if they decided to tire of her. 

They must need Mindra for something. She clearly wasn’t the intelligence behind the operation, but that was unfortunately how it often went among drow. Men of ability were forced to keep women of great power and little sense, lest they risk receiving glory on their own. 

The shouting trickled away, but Torafein’s thoughts lingered on it, repeating Mindra’s lines until they were seared into his heart. Who knew when his next amusement would come. He intended to savor it. 

Yet to his surprise, his wallowing was interrupted. Heat brightened the cave entrance, and Torafein darted his eyes away, donning his mantle of simplicity. On the edge of his periphery, he could just make out Ivory’s demon mask as the warlock approached. 

“Well, don’t you look cozy,” said the szarkai, with an unusual undertone of malice. 

Had Ivory’s feathers been ruffled? Oh, that was a treat indeed. Only strict discipline kept Torafein from glancing in his direction, glorying in the warlock’s agitation. 

But he had a game to play, and Ivory had just handed him another weapon for his growing arsenal. A schism that could be exploited. 

Ivory sank to one knee, peering at Torafein. “You have it so easy, don’t you?” he said, and as he spoke, his ire became amusement. “Nothing to do, no responsibilities. You just get to idle your days away. No women to nip at your heels. I almost envy you.”

Torafein clenched his teeth to ward off the vindictive retorts that wanted to claw their way out of his throat, vicious invitations to offer Ivory to exchange his place. But losing his temper would result only in losing the long game. He had to appear docile and broken until the moment was right. 

For once, Ivory didn’t seem content to converse with himself. He loomed around the side of the cage, where Torafein’s gaze lingered, and snapped his gloved fingers several times in front of Torafein’s face.

Torafein didn’t even blink.

“Hmm…” he said. “You really are gone, aren’t you? A pity. I’d hoped you’d outlast your darling companion. Mindra has such wretched opinions on the fortitude of men. I’d hoped we could prove her wrong.” He rose with a dramatic sigh. “Alas, a fool is a fool. Nothing to be done. I shall go pay your Crysla a visit with my laments. I do so love to hear a songblade sing.” 

There was an ugly sneer in his voice, a promise of violence and future screaming, and something feral stirred inside of Torafein. Rage like the beast he was caged to be made his blood boil, the fury that kept him alive stoked to a roaring blaze. 

Torafein was getting awfully sick of being helpless. Though his bonds could not yet be slipped, he was ready to start fighting back.

“A fool is a fool,” he repeated, keeping his eyes fixed on the rockwall to his left so that Ivory wouldn’t see the intensity of his hate. His words only worked if they came from the mouth of a madman. “You call me a fool, but I’m not the one searching for the ghost of Arandabar.” 

Ivory had turned away, but froze midstep. “What did you just say?” He swung back around.

Torafein allowed his silence to act as bait, and it worked. Ivory returned, kneeling before him. 

“Who told you we were looking for Arandabar?” he asked. “We have never asked about such a place.” 

Torafein didn’t restrain the smile that crept over his lips, though he still didn’t look at Ivory. “And you call me a fool. Like I don’t have eyes, like I don’t see the map Mindra studies while you study my blood.” 

Now it was Ivory’s turn to remain silent, likely walking his memory back to the encounters Torafein had spent in Toloruel’s company. It had only happened once, but the apparent schism in Torafein’s memory would add credibility to his mind-fracturing act. Mindra had spread out an ancient, deteriorating map, and Torafein had glimpsed the name of the city the charcoal tunnels spiraled toward. 

The ancient Arandabar, on whose crumbling ruins Launa was constructed.

“Fascinating,” Ivory finally said. “Well, I suppose the secret is out. Yes, we search for Arandabar. Have you been there?”

Torafein barked a short, contemptuous laugh. “Lunacy,” he chortled. “And they say I’m mad. The city has been dead for a millenia. Do I look over a thousand to you?”

“Right,” Ivory replied, and unless Torafein was mistaken, there was some dryness in his retort. Mindra must have truly rattled him. “My mistake. Allow me to clarify. Have you been to the ruins of Arandabar before?”

And thus they came to the tipping point in Torafein’s strategy. The words he uttered next would begin a cave in, a countdown to either his doom or escape. He’d intended to wait until he was certain he could slip his bonds before he started this phase of the plan, but if he let Ivory off the hook now, he might never get him back.

And Crysla would suffer for it. 

“Oh yes,” Torafein said, the truth raked from his gut. “All rumbles and ruins when we arrived, but not so anymore.”

Ivory collapsed into a sitting position, a sign he was fully enraptured by the conversation. Good. Torafein had hoped to gain his full attention, though the cost was a bitter tincture to swallow. He’d finally done what he’d sworn he would never do: he’d admitted to the existence of Launa. 

But sometimes a dog needed to be tossed a bone if you wanted it to stay.

“Not ruined anymore, you say?” Ivory said, leaning in with interest. He was practically salivating behind his mask, or so Torafein imagined.  “So, Arandabar is rebuilt?” 

A clever feint. Ivory had either bought into Torafein’s persona or was at least smart enough to play along, asking indirect questions in the hopes that Torafein might let something of value slip. The board was laid and the stones placed, and so the match began.

“No,” Torafein said, grinning like the madman they accused him of being. “No, no, Arandabar is dead. We repurposed her stones, built new walls. Improved her temple. Much better now.”

“Did you now?” Ivory sounded as impressed as mother admiring her toddler’s sloppy schoolwork, and only the promise of one day wrapping his fingers around the demon’s throat enabled Torafein to endure the patronizing. 

“Tell me more,” the szarkai invited. “Did you repair its faezress wells, too?”

The conversation was straying toward Launa’s defenses, a subject of which Torafein had no interest in partaking in. So he shrugged. “How should I know? I’m not a mage.” 

Of course, any drow with two thoughts in his brain would know that everything in Launa was only possible because of the deep fissure of faezress the city was built upon. The light, the defensive wards, even the aqueducts, were all powered by the mysterious and naturally occurring magical energy. Without it, life in the Underdark would cease to exist.

“No, I suppose you’re not,” Ivory said. “A disappointment to your mother, I am sure. But then, I’m hardly one to talk, aren’t I? I was a disappointment just by being born.” He actually laughed, and Torafein recognized his angle of attack: feigned friendship. Now that he thought Torafein had cracked, he aimed to lure him in with comradery, earn his affection and eventually his trust.

As if there weren’t iron bars between them. As if Ivory wasn’t clean and well kept, while Torafein wasted away. As if Ivory wasn’t the one responsible for his current situation.

Torafein couldn’t wait to slip his chains. 

“What if I brought you Mindra’s map?” Ivory asked, as though the idea had just occurred to him. “Could you show me which tunnels would lead us there?”

Torafein laughed, high and mocking. Ivory might want to play at being friends, but Torafein didn’t have to go along with it. Madmen could be whatever they pleased. “Hardly,” he said, enjoying the feeling of crushing his hopes. “The caverns have changed. That scrap of dust is as useful as a child’s drawing.”

Ivory chuckled, unfazed by his condescension. “I have told Mindra much the same. But you know how women are. What if instead I brought you blank parchment and charcoal? I imagine you’re well versed in sketching field maps. I’d quite like to see the improvements made to Arandabar’s ruins.” 

“Charcoal and ink won’t show you the way,” Torafein said. This conversation was going far better than he had anticipated. “It cannot be found on a map. The way is blinded to all who have not been before. You need a Guide to get you there.” 

Ivory said nothing, perhaps sifting Torafein’s words for truth. And, Torafein was telling the truth. Mostly. A good map could get someone to Launa, but it would need codes and command words to see them through the heavy wards that guarded their walls. Yet so far as Torafein was aware, such a map did not exist. From the earliest foundations of the Sanctuary, they had relied on memorized routes passed from one to another to navigate the tunnels. It was part of what made his role so valuable. 

“A guide,” Ivory mused, though without mirroring the emphasis Torafein placed on the word. “How interesting.”

His tone had changed again, no longer warm and friendly. He hadn’t seemed to  have caught the reference to Guides as a title, but he’d certainly understood what Torafein was truly seeking; an excuse to be let out of his cage. And being unfortunately rather clever, he knew better than to jump at the first sign of Torafein’s compliance. The request had made him suspicious, and rightfully so.

Ivory tapped the chin of his metal mask, as though mulling it over, then stood. “This has been a most delightful discussion. So much so that I think I’ll skip out on the music.”

Torafein almost growled, but managed to wrestle his composure into submission. He, too, was well versed in reading between the lines, and Ivory had just rewarded his ‘good behavior’ with a promise to leave Crysla alone.

Which implied he held doubts about Torafein’s act, and assured that the next time he came to call, resisting compliance would be that much more difficult. If the little bit of truth Torafein had just offered truly spared Crysla pain, he would be tempted to give more. 

“I shall keep what you have told me in mind. Oh, and Torafein”—Ivory glanced back as he strode away—“let’s keep this discussion our little secret, okay?”  

Torafein watched him go, his chest full of fury. But, all things considered, the conversation had gone better than he could have hoped. He’d accomplished his goals. The seeds were planted in Ivory’s mind, but he would have to be extremely careful going forward. It was now absolutely imperative no one caught him breaking character, or all of this abasing of himself would be for naught. 

***

Torafein sensed a chasm forming, Ivory against the Tear’s.

Before, he received visits from both Toloruel and Ivory, whoever was on feeding duty that day. Now he received visits from Ivory only, who continued to poke and prod at his knowledge of the route to the ruins of ancient Arandabar. Torafein was careful to stick to his story, no matter how many ways the warlock asked; the only way anyone would get to Launa was if they let Torafein out of his cage to lead them there. 

Crysla couldn’t do it, he’d insisted to Ivory on one occasion. It had to be a Guide, because Guides had special enchantments to allow them to see the markings that would lead the way. Which, of course, was utter nonsense, but Ivory had no way to corroborate that story. Judging by her occasional cries, after the brief reprieve that Torafein had earned her, Crysla was resisting answering his questions. 

And even if she wasn’t, Torafein suspected Ivory wouldn’t question her about his conversations with Torafein in front of Toloruel and Mindra. It seemed the szarkai wasn’t interested in sharing his new insights. If he had, Torafein probably would have heard less of Mindra screaming that he was worthless and a waste of her time. 

Yet each time Ivory left Torafein, he reminded Torafein to keep their conversations ‘their little secret’, in case anyone else deigned to visit. A request Torafein was happy to comply with. After all, his whole plan hinged on the hope that it would be Ivory who let him out of his cage, and that he was alone when he did so. Everything else would fall into place, so long as that parameter was met. 

And so the new routine dragged on. There was more of Mindra’s raging, less of Crysla’s crying, and a guaranteed visit from Ivory after every stretch of silence. And though everything seemed to remain the same, there were subtle differences. 

Each time Mindra lost her temper, Ivory’s own patience seemed to ebb further away. He was certainly tolerating her, but Torafein sensed in his countenance a deep-seated desire to be rid of her. It took longer and longer for the irritation to leak out of his voice whenever he came to visit after one of her tantrums.

Yet he was still wary of Torafein’s insistence that the only way to find Launa was to let the fading warrior out of his bars. So Torafein was forced to be patient, and since he’d finally lost enough muscle mass to slip his wrists out of his chains, he was finding his own patience in short supply. 

Eventually it would all pay off. Eventually, Ivory would snap, and make his inevitable play to betray the Tears. He just had to hold onto his strength until that day came. 

And come, it finally did. 

Another tantrum roused Torafein from a trance, though by now he was tempted to tune the raging out. A performance was always interesting the first time or two, but when it had been viewed on repeat, it lost its glamor. Yet there was something especially malevolent in Mindra’s voice, something that snagged his attention.

“You came to us, remember?” she shrieked. “We had a deal! We’re nowhere closer to finding the vermin than we were in Menzoberranzan. Some god your Selvetarm has turned out to be!”

A whip cracked, but the recoil didn’t soften with the sound of struck flesh. Instead, it twanged in a distinct way that Torafein recognized; snakehead against magic shield. 

Torafein raised an eyebrow. In all the tantrums she had ever thrown, he had never once heard evidence of physical violence being used against the men. Surely Mindra wasn’t that stupid. She might get away with it in the walls of her own House, but out here, with no accountability? 

“I do as I please,” the female snarled. Whatever Ivory had said—assuming it was Ivory—was spoken too softly to reach Torafein’s prison. “This isn’t Eryndlyn, you backwater filth. Remember who is in charge.” 

The silence that followed was smothering, and Torafein was left to wonder what had caused the disagreement and muse on the pebble of information Mindra had just let slip.

Ivory was from Eryndlyn? That certainly explained some of the quirks in his personality. Especially his disdain for Lolth and uncommon defiance toward women. Men in Eryndlyn could hold as much power as women in Menzoberranzan, and were generally looked down upon by the other cities for it. 

His musings came to an abrupt halt, however, as the warlock suddenly appeared in his cavern. Ivory didn’t saunter in his usual manner, but stormed toward Torafein’s cage, wearing an aura of such violence that it shone around him as ambient heat. 

The cage rattled as Ivory crashed into the bars, gripping the metal in his gloved hands. He lowered his mask so the demonic visage leered right into Torafein’s eyes. “Would you like to go for a walk, Torafein Xarrin?” he asked, in glacial tones. “I find myself quickly tiring of my current accommodations.” 

Torafein could barely breathe. All his work, all his feigned insanity and careful seed planting, was about to mature for harvest. He prayed his excitement wouldn’t shine through his eyes as he leaned forward, his movement disguising the clinking of the chains as he slipped his feeble wrists from their coils. 

“That depends,” he said, a maddening smile spreading across his lips. “Can we take Crysla?” 

It didn’t matter what Ivory thought now. Whether he believed Torafein’s insanity act or not, they had come to a silent agreement. Ivory was done with Mindra, and Torafein was offering a bargaining chip. His help for Crysla’s freedom, a perfectly logical strategy to play. One Ivory would have been expecting.

“Of course,” Ivory said. “I’ve grown rather fond of her myself. It would be a shame to leave her to Toloruel, much as I have come to admire him.” 

Without another word, the szarkai, blinded by his hatred for Mindra and seeing only what he wanted to see, slid the key from his sleeve and plunged it into the lock. Torafein tensed his muscles, and when the door swung open, he sprung. 

Ivory didn’t have time to cry out as Torafein bowled into him, wrapping the chain that had once snared his wrists around his enemy’s throat and cutting off all hope of drawing enough breath to call out for help. They struggled against one another, the toll his imprisonment manifesting in visceral detail. 

He was weak, and already fatigued as Ivory fought against him. Yet though Torafein was but a shell of the warrior he had once been, he’d always been of uncommon elven build; broad and wide, where others of his race were lithe and wiry. He’d had the element of surprise and momentum in his favor, and Ivory’s frail attempts to free himself were all in vain. 

The szarkai’s efforts at freedom grew feebler and feebler, until at last, his body went slack in Torafein’s arms. Yet still, Torafein didn’t relent. Not until enough time had passed that he was certain Ivory would no longer be capable of drawing his own breath. 

When at last he was satisfied, Torafein let go, guiding Ivory’s body to the stone floor, lest his collapse attract the attention of whoever might be lurking outside the prison cavern. 

Torafein’s breath was already coming in short, rapid bursts, despite the whole affair lasting no more than two minutes. His body trembled, though from adrenaline or exertion, Torafein couldn’t say. Regardless of which, he needed to move. Time was of the essence, and phase two of his three-part plan had only just begun.

He knelt beside Ivory, the demonic mask grinning at him with steel teeth, as though mocking him in place of its owner. Torafein’s own lips curled back as he ripped the mask from Ivory’s face, revealing ghostly skin and glassy eyes.

“Hail the might of Selvetarm,” Torafein spat, his words dripping with venom. He set the mask aside and slipped his fingers around Ivory’s jaw. With a well-practiced twist and a sickening snap, Torafein assured himself the warlock would never bewitch him again. 

Then he went to work. His ever-present pain faded as the world narrowed to just the next steps. Torafein tugged at the sash of grey fabric securing Ivory’s tunic, stripping the szarkai of his clothing with swift, succinct motions. 

Once removed, Torafein dressed in it himself, covering his emaciated form in the spoils of his victory, still warmed by the body cooling at his feet. It all fitted nicely, in fact, a little too nicely. Ivory was slender where Torafein was not, but his clothing had conveniently been designed to obscure every knowable detail about the warlock’s identity. Hopefully, no one would notice if Torafein filled his frame a little better. 

The boots posed a greater problem, being far too small for comfort. After relieving his ankles of their shackles with the key he’d found in Ivory’s sash, Torafein forced the leather on, biting down on his lip to keep from groaning from the pain. Somehow, despite everything he’d been through, the pinching seemed almost unbearable. 

But bear it he must, if he was going to walk out of this cavern alive. 

Gritting his teeth, Torafein completed the disguise with the glabrezu mask and tucked the simple, curved dagger the warlock carried back into his sash. He would have preferred his trusted greatsword, but that hung on the wall of Toloruel’s torture cavern, a detour Torafein wasn’t willing to risk.

Besides, he probably couldn’t wield it anymore. Not in his current state. The dagger would have to do. 

Torafein rose, his body protesting every action he took, and began to pace. Ivory had walked with a particular stride, light and carefree. Even without the fire in his nerves, the motions were alien to Torafein’s body. But he’d been studying the szarkai’s movements and gestures for tendays, and after a few laps, deemed his performance good enough. Time was trickling away, and his body would only tolerate his actions for so long.

And so the moment had come at last. The very steps he’d been scheming to take, the fruit of his playacting and plotting. The occasion should have been momentous, accompanied by fanfare or some inward sense of triumph at the very least. 

But there was nothing. Just agonizing footsteps and a burning desire to get the hell out of here. Rather than rejoice that he’d gotten this far, a miraculous feat in itself, Torafein braced himself for what he expected to be his next hurdle. 

Yet when he stepped into the main cavern, the one that served as a common area where crates of supplies were stacked, Torafein found it blessedly empty. Wherever Mindra and Toloruel were lurking, it wasn’t here, and his concerns over a confrontation were temporarily abated. 

Yet only temporarily. Cockroaches had a bad habit of turning up where least expected, and he still had Crysla to find. 

Fortunately, he had a good guess as to where she was located, after the long hours spent mulling over which of the five openings branching from this chamber led where. The long narrow one straight ahead most likely led out, given how different it was from the other holes in the rock. Toloruel’s torture cave was to Torafein’s immediate right, and he suspected it was also where the monster made his abode. No drow in their right mind would leave such a bounty of weaponry unattended, no matter how closely related they were to their companions. Loyalty among the dark elves was reminiscent of spider thread; thin, sticky, and easily swept aside.

That left only the chamber to his left and the cavern beside Toloruel’s, and given the choice between the two, Torafein assumed Mindra would have preferred to be nearer to her brother, the type of dangerous she understood. 

So Torafein chose the cavern to the left, betting that Ivory kept Crysla near himself. He’d seemed rather infatuated with her, or at least, intoxicated by the idea of keeping a cleric of his patron’s enemy so near and distraught. Considering his last words, his remark that he’d rather not leave Crysla to Toloruel, Torafein was certain he would find her there.

He wasn’t wrong.

All of his cool, methodic calculations ceased as he ducked inside the cavern. Crysla’s body burned like fire against the cool stone floor where she sprawled like discarded porcelain, her body heat alone the only evidence she lived. 

Torafein muttered an oath, surging toward her as fast as his broken body and too-small boots would allow. In his mind, Crysla had still been caged and shackled like him. She’d been restrained against attempts to escape with cold metal and iron bars.

But the priestess lay unhindered by shackles, unguarded by any measure he could visually perceive. Aside from her lack of consciousness, nothing seemed to be holding her within the chamber. Why hadn’t she slipped away? Songblades weren’t useless without their magic, and a quick, cursory glance around the rest of the cave revealed ample ordinary objects that a resourceful warrior could turn into a weapon, to include Ivory’s actual curved scimitars propped beside a bedroll.

As he fell beside her body, Torafein found the answer. Though her condition overall was much as he remembered it—thinned but markless, thanks to the healing she was offered—her feet blazed hotter than the rest of her. Upon closer inspection, he found them swollen and misshapen, as though every bone beneath her skin had been smashed. 

Death had been too good for Ivory. 

“Crysla,” he whispered, the igneous crust around his molten heart disintegrating. He brushed the hair back from her cheek, regretting the thick gloves that kept him incapable of feeling her skin. He’d heard, in passing, that affectionate touch was important to the psyche. He’d never quite believed it, until he found himself starved of it. 

The priestess moaned, her eyes fluttering at the contact, then snapping wide as she beheld him. She scrambled to lift herself and scoot away from him, though where she intended to go with the stone wall at her back was any elf’s guess.

“Crysla,” Torafein repeated, somewhat surprised by her violent, fearful reaction. A split second later he remembered how he’d disguised himself and grimaced, not that she could see it. “It’s me,” he said. “Torafein.”

Despite the risk of being caught, Torafein swept back his stolen hood and tugged the mask away, revealing his haggard face and shorn hair. 

Crysla narrowed her eyes, then shook her head. “No. It can’t be. They told me you were dead. You won’t fool me with your tricks, demon.”

“They lied,” Torafein said. “It is truly me. Torafein Xarrin. You once served under my banner in my mother’s army. You were with the others who left me behind in the Glenwick raid. Those are my truths, now here is my lie: I’ve always supported Ardyn’s choice to serve with the Fleet.” 

Crysla stilled, staring at him once again. Disbelief warred with relief as she studied his silhouette, her eyes sparking with tears. She scrubbed them away before they fell. “Is it really you?” she asked, though he could tell by her voice she knew the answer. “But how?” She shot a pointed look in the direction of the glabrezu mask. 

“Long story,” he said, reaching for the enchanted collar around her throat. “Ivory is dead, but the others still prowl somewhere. I’ll tell you the rest when we get out of here.” 

“Torafein, wait—”

Torafein tugged at the buckle that secured the collar, but it didn’t move. 

“Tora—”

Frowning, Torafein tried again. It ought to have released. Ivory was dead, so his bond to the item was severed. He’d just strangled the elf, there was no way he was too weak to work a buckle.

Unless…

“Who put this on you?” Torafein demanded.

“Toloruel,” Crysla said, somehow managing to muster a note of exasperation in her tone. “The item is his, and attuned to him only. That’s what I was trying to tell you.” 

Of course it was Toloruel. Who else would own such a cruel device? Torafein cursed, rocking back. He was in absolutely no condition to murder Toloruel at the moment, and Crysla was in no condition to walk without her magical ability to heal herself. 

Think, he needed to think. 

Maybe they’d packed some healing potions in their crates. He could take a few minutes to search. The cavern was empty, after all, and he was disguised. It would hardly be suspicious if someone happened to walk by, right? 

Unless Mindra was stingy with how supplies were doled out. That could pose a problem… 

“Torafein, listen to me,” Crysla snapped, and the sharpness in her tone wrenched him from his calculations. She’d pushed herself into a seated position, taking care not to jostle her ruined feet. “You need to get out of here. Don’t worry about me.” 

As in leave her behind? Yeah, right. The whole point of breaking out was to break her out. She had been his motivation, his atonement. Without her, his freedom was worthless. 

“Unacceptable,” Torafein said. “We both escape, or neither of us do.” 

She actually rolled her eyes, though how she had the energy for such defiance was beyond him. “Stubborn man,” she said. “Think! I can’t walk, I’ll only slow you down. One of us has to get back to Launa and right now, you have the best chance.” 

“I’ll carry you,” Torafein insisted, and even reached for her, but she swatted his hands away. 

“Your disguise is worthless if you carry me out of here,” Crysla said. “I don’t leave this cave anymore. They… they come for me here.”

“So I’ll tell them I have new plans for you.” 

Crysla smiled, and somehow it was the saddest expression Torafein had ever seen. “Commander,” she said, a jarring reminder of his identity. “You’re smarter than this. You know what’s at stake. You have to go, before you lose your chance.” 

As if to prove her point, Mindra’s voice echoed through the caverns. 

“Toloruel!”

Crysla gave Torafein a meaningful look. “Please. Go. I’ll be alright.”

They both knew that was a lie.

“Toloruel!” Mindra shrieked again. Evidently, the brother she sought was nowhere to be found. 

Any minute now, she could come waltzing into this cavern looking for him. Or worse, she could peek into Torafein’s abandoned prison cavern, where Ivory’s corpse would give the plot away. His only opportunity to walk away was slipping through his fingers, yet still, he couldn’t make himself move. 

“There has to be a way,” he said, though he knew there was not. He was too weak to carry her far, and too weak to take on Toloruel and fight for her freedom. Launa needed to be warned, but the price was too steep to pay. 

Tears materialized in Crysla’s eyes once more, but this time, she didn’t wipe them away. “You killed Ivory. That’s enough for me. Think about Tsaria. Sabraena. Ardyn. Torafein, you have a family. I have no one. Go, before you can’t.” 

It was worse than any of his nightmares. Torafein would have sooner walked into a giant spider’s den than walked away from Crysla, but he was running out of arguments. The strategist in him conceded that he needed to go. 

Something twisted in his chest, and Torafein leaned forward, closing the distance between himself and his subordinate as he took her face in his gloved hands. “I’m coming back for you,” he promised, his forehead pressed to hers. 

Crysla gripped him as well, and this close, he could feel the violence of her trembling. “I know,” she whispered. 

They released each other just as Mindra shouted, “Ivory!”

Torafein tensed, and Crysla looked grim. 

“That’s your cue,” she muttered. “Don’t mess this up.”

Torafein saluted, as though the roles of their ranks were reversed, and donned the demon mask. Raising his hood, he turned away from Crysla, telling himself it would all be alright. Crysla was strong. Eilsitraee would keep her. He would be back with reinforcements soon. She just had to hold on a little longer.

But as he ducked out of Ivory’s cave, he couldn’t help but feel that this was the last time he would ever see her. 

He didn’t have long to dwell on the feeling, however. Mindra whirled to face him, her face twisted with contempt. “Took you long enough,” she snarled. “Where is that useless brother of mine?” 

Torafein hesitated. He hadn’t actually counted being asked direct questions. There was no way he could muster a decent impression of Ivory’s oily cadence. Too much gravel in his own voice, the consequence of drilling soldiers for a century before he left House Xarrin. 

Fortunately, there was more than one way for a drow to communicate. Offering Mindra his best Ivory-esque shrug—careless with a splash of mockery—he signed the words, ‘Haven’t seen him.’

Mindra didn’t bat an eye at his uncharacteristic silence. She just tossed up her hands and then gestured to the narrow crevice Torafein had pegged as the exit tunnel. “Then go find him!” 

An order he was more than happy to pretend to oblige. Torafein pressed a hand to his heart and bowed, the way an obedient male ought to treat his superior lady, and pivoted toward the tunnel. He was careful to keep his steps in line with the szarkai’s, even after he rounded the bend out of Mindra’s sight. 

And just like that, he was free. Ordered out of his own prison by his captors, though the victory was soured by his loneliness. His body might have walked away, but his heart remained at Crysla’s side, agonizing over her fate and all the horrible what-ifs he could fathom.

He would have to hurry. There was no telling how far from Launa they were, or how long it would take to orient himself. Eventually, the narrow tunnel would end, and he would have to start making blind navigational choices. Hopefully, the twists would come before Ivory’s corpse was discovered. 

With that prayer barely beyond his lips, Torafein followed the rough wall around another bend, and nearly walked straight into Toloruel.

Hate burst through Torafein’s blood like an electrical pulse, as though bitter lightning had struck him in the chest. He reached instinctively for the dagger in his sash, but Toloruel caught his wrist with agile reflexes. 

“It’s just me,” he hissed, barely above a whisper. 

Right. Torafein was disguised. He willed his grip to relax, his body to unwind, though part of him wanted to snatch up the dagger anyway and aim for Toloruel’s heart. He would be dead if he tried it in his current condition, but he might get lucky and take Toloruel with him. 

Toloruel let him go, then signed, ‘Did she drive you away with her squawking as well?’ He smirked, but the expression failed to light up his eyes. 

Of course. They were in the Wilds now. Signing was preferable to talking. Torafein breathed a little easier, lifting his hands to motion, ‘She is calling for you.’

Toloruel’s expression darkened. ‘Of course she is,’ he signed, with absolutely no enthusiasm in his gestures. Without another word, signed or spoken, he slid past Torafein and meandered up the passageway. 

Torafein waited until the sound of footsteps receded, then decided enough was enough. Too many close calls. Kicking off his too-small boots, he ran down the tunnel, refusing to look back.

If he had, he might have seen a pair of glinting red eyes, leering at him from the darkness from where Toloruel doubled back.

Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.