The Dragon's Claim

Chapter 1

Marjorie

The sickle trembles in my raw, blistered hands as another crack of the whip splits the air. My teeth grind together, jaw clenching at Old Man Weber's cry of pain.

"Move faster, human filth!" The dark elf overseer's voice carries across the wheat field. "The sun's still up, and half the field remains untouched."

Sweat trickles down my neck despite the biting cold. I adjust my threadbare cloak with one hand, the other maintaining a white-knuckled grip on my tool. The temptation to swing it at the overseer's smug face grows with each passing moment.

"Keep your head down," Sarah whispers from the row beside me. Her face is streaked with dirt and exhaustion. "Your siblings need you in one piece."

My fingers brush against the woven bracelet at my wrist. She's right. I can't risk Jerome and Manny losing the only family they have left. Still, the weight of the sickle calls to me, promising swift justice.

"What was that, slave?" The overseer's boots crunch through the wheat stalks. "Perhaps you need motivation to work rather than gossip?"

"No, sir." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "We're working."

Another crack of the whip, closer this time. "Then prove it. Or shall I visit the children's quarter tonight?"

My hands squeeze the sickle's handle so tight, splinters dig into my palms. The blade gleams in the setting sun, and for a moment, I imagine the satisfaction of burying it in his chest. But Jerome's gap-toothed smile flashes through my mind, followed by Manny's quiet laugh. I force my grip to loosen and return to cutting wheat.

The overseer's laughter fades as he moves down the line. "That's what I thought. Know your place, human."

Ever since I'd begun working in the fields, when I was fifteen, I'd dreamed of a life where the dark elves didn't chase our nightmares and force us into slavery. Death is the punishment for defying their orders, and the worst kind of death is a sentence to the dark elf estate. There, it is said the dark elf lord tortures humans for days on end.

No one has ever lived to tell, but if the elves' lord is anything like the overseer, black hair and shark-teeth, I'd believe anything.

Sarah shoots me a look from across the field, lets go while he's not watching, and I nod once.

When the overseer's back is turned, we steel through the high-reaching crop stalks, running to the storage shed. We crouch behind weathered timbers while twilight creeps over the settlement. The smell of rotting wood mingles with the metallic tang of blood from the punishment post nearby. Neither of us dare glance to see the remains of the body strung on the post.

"Did you hear about Marcus?" Sarah's voice barely carries over the evening breeze. "They took him to the estate yesterday."

My stomach churns. "What was his crime?"

"Looking a noble in the eye." She wraps her arms around herself. "They say he screamed for hours before falling silent. The dark lord's probably not done with him yet."

"Those pointed-eared bastards." I grip my bracelet tight.

"Keep your voice down." Sarah glances around. "Remember what happened to Elena's family when she spoke against them? All of them, even the baby..."

"The things they do in that estate..." I shudder at the thought, and look to the dark elf estate on the ragged hill, overlooking the village and the surrounding forrest.

 "The screams carry all the way to Lowtown some nights," Sarah continue. "And their magic – it's not natural. The way their eyes glow when they're angry, how their skin seems to ripple..."

"Like demons wearing elf-skin," I whispers. "My grandmother used to say they crawled out of hell itself, that they feed on human suffering to maintain their immortality."

Anger wraps a strong fist around my heart. Someday, those elves would suffer for all the pain and carnage they'd put my people through.

Sarah must see my mind at work, because she grabs my arm, and whispers fiercely, "Promise me you won't do anything stupid, Marj."

I nod, but my jaw remains clenched. The dark elves may own our bodies, but they'll never own our spirits. Not while I still draw breath.

We return to our post minutes later, avoiding the dark elves stationed across the field. Fortunately, it isn't long before the overseer sounds the horn, signalling the end of the day.

The trek home stretches before me, past the dark elf soldiers who always gather at Lowtown's border. Their armor gleams in the dying light, a reminder of who holds the power here. I keep my eyes fixed on the muddy path, shoulders hunched. Their laughter carries on the wind as I pass.

"Look at this one. Almost pretty, for a human."

"Wouldn't waste my time. Probably crawling with fleas."

Every part of my body screams with the effort of walking, of breathing. Once the people of the lowtown come of age, they elves sentence us to work the fields, from sun up to sundown. No doubt our life spans have shortened over the decades the elves have reigned. I've seen some villagers drop dead in the field from hunger and thirst, the elves sometimes do nothing but let the crows feed on the body. So many times I've seen my body in the fallen, lying dead in the field.

I'd survived this long out of sheer stubbornness. 

My nails dig into my palms, but I keep walking. One foot in front of the other. The wooden door of our home creaks as I push it open, and suddenly small arms wrap around my waist.

"Marj! You're back!" Jerome's gap-toothed grin beams up at me. Behind him, Manny waves from his spot by our threadbare cushions.

"Did you bring anything?" Jerome bounces on his toes, hope shining in his eyes.

I pull two small rolls from my pocket, saved from my meager lunch ration. "Here. Split these."

"But what about you?" Manny's quiet voice carries across the room.

"Already ate." The lie comes easily, practiced. My stomach growls in protest, but I ignore it. "Now tell me about your day. Did you finish those reading exercises I left?"

Jerome launches into a story about the alphabet while breaking the roll in half, sharing with his brother. I light our single oil lamp, its weak flame casting shadows on the walls of our tiny home. Their voices wash over me, innocent and untouched by the day's cruelties. For now, at least, they can still smile.

My stomach clenches as I watch them share the meager bread, crumbs falling onto our threadbare blanket. The shadows from our oil lamp dance across their faces, making them look older, haunted. Hunger has begun to hollow out their under-eyes, draining their tiny bodies of the nutrients they so desperately need.

"And then Tommy showed me this cool whistle he found-" Jerome's words snag my attention.

"Wait." I snap forward, grabbing his wrist. "Tommy who?"

"You know, from three houses down? The one with the-"

"Shh." I press a finger to my lips, glancing at our thin walls. "Lower your voice."

Jerome's eyes widen. "But Tommy's gone missing. Haven't seen him in days."

The bread in my throat turns to sawdust. Sarah's whispered words from the field echo in my mind: "Two more taken this week. Little Beth and that boy from the copper street. All they found was his wooden whistle."

"When?" My voice comes out hoarse. "When did you last see him?"

"Three days ago?" Jerome shrugs. "His ma's been asking around, but-"

"Stop." I pull both boys closer, their small bodies warm against mine. "Listen carefully. No more playing outside after sunset. Stay where I can see you."

"But-"

"No buts." My fingers find my bracelet, twisting the worn threads. "And if anyone approaches you - anyone - you run straight home. Even if they're from Lowtown. Understand?"

Manny nods, but Jerome's face scrunches in protest. "We're not babies anymore-"

"Jerome." My voice cracks. "Please."

Something in my tone must reach him because he slumps against me, nodding. Outside, footsteps crunch past our door. We freeze, barely breathing, until they fade away.

"Good." I smooth their hair, trying to keep my hands from shaking. "Now, about those reading exercises..."

Jerome's soft snores mix with Manny's quiet breathing as I pull the threadbare blanket higher over their shoulders. 

I settle onto my thin sleeping mat, but rest eludes me. The wooden floor boards dig into my back through the worn fabric. Above me, cobwebs stretch across the ceiling beams like threads of silver.

What would it feel like to walk through the market without hunching my shoulders? To meet the dark elves' eyes without fear of punishment? To know my brothers would never go hungry again? For centuries, the civilians of the lowtown have lived in fear of the dark elves. They invaded our land and claimed ownership over our people, brandishing their power through forceful enslavement. To them, we are little more than animals made to harvest the land and serve their population.

None of us have slept peacefully in years, always watching over our shoulder to see if a disgruntled elf decided to whip us for their pleasure.

My hand finds the bracelet at my wrist, fingers working the familiar threads. Muma used to say there was magic in the world once. Real magic, the magic of Protheka, not just the parlor tricks the dark elves use to keep us in line. In her stories, mother said the elves worship the thirteen Hungry Maws, sacred deities that have been alive for millennia. The thirteen, she said, possessed incredible power that could reshape mountains and command the elements.

If such a story could be believed.

I treasured my mother's stories as a young girl when the world seemed like a colourful place filled with love. Then I grew to see how being human was a punishment from the elves. Love was as wanton as mother's stories of magic.

A deep rumble echoes from the cliffs behind the dark elf estate, like distant thunder. But the air is crisp and clear – no storm clouds in sight. The sound comes again, deeper this time, resonating in my chest.

My breath catches. Whatever was making that sound wasn't from natural causes.

I press my palm against the floor, feeling the vibrations travel through the wooden planks. The noise fades, leaving the stillness of the night in its wake. Whatever lurks in those cliffs, is powerful. Dangerous.