"And you two couldn't handle this yourselves?" an annoyed young man said to the older man in front of him. The two were rushing down the endless spiraling staircase to the lowest parts of the castle. The older man led them down the shadowed hallways, guided only by a candle.
"We have tried, but this one is too strong, even for us," the bald man said, finding it difficult to admit his faults. "We figured it might better relate to a rider."
The young man huffed. "Then why not just ask the king?"
"Ha! And risk facing his wrath at our inability to break his newest, most favorite prisoner? Not likely." They had stopped in front of a steel door, with two guards on each side. "Open it."
The room was bare all except for a lone chair in the middle of the floor. A woman was strapped to it, one eye bruised and her lip split and bleeding. "You're going to all this trouble for a girl?" The young man started to walk out, but the bald man and a clone of him blocked the door.
"Just try," the Twins said in unison. Murtagh sighed and walked up to her.
Her long sleeved shirt was ripped and falling off her right shoulder. Her pants had been torn to the point of rags. Her long, greased black hair had fallen in front of her left eye, leaving only half of her face visible. Murtagh placed one finger under her chin and lifted her head. She was inhumanly beautiful, despite her mangled appearance.
In an instant, her eyes, or eye rather, flashed open to reveal a smoldering red iris. It glared at him, holding him in its gaze. Murtagh stood paralyzed for a minute, and then was smashed backwards into the far wall by nothing but air.
All he said was: "It's an elf."