Page 21

I huff a quiet laugh. “We’re not human, Lysandra. You forget that.”

She scowls, clearly unamused. “You know what I mean. You’re painting a sympathetic picture, as if I should feel guilty for resisting Dark Elf oppression.”

I glance at her sidelong. “Not guilt—understanding. You want to free your kind, but do you realize how deeply the structures of this city run? Even if you succeeded in some grand revolt, you’d leave chaos in your wake. Humans wouldn’t be the only ones who suffer.”

She crosses her arms, glaring down at the street. “Spare me your pity. I’ve seen how you treat human laborers. I saw the bodies in the courtyard. Chaos already reigns.”

I don’t bother disputing that. Instead, I push off the rail and lead her back inside. We wind through a series of corridors until we emerge in a wide atrium that branches out to the fortress’s central courtyard. Guards stationed here bow at my approach, but their eyes narrow on Lysandra. She notices, squaring her shoulders defiantly.

I guide her through an ornate archway that opens into the city’s main thoroughfare. Towering statues of the Hunter—a tall, hooded figure with a bow—line the avenue. Each statue’s face is hidden by a cowl, emphasizing the god’s predatory nature. The crowds part as we pass, some onlookers gawking at the sight of a human walking so freely beside a Dark Elf prince. Whispers ripple, prickling the back of my neck. Lysandra stiffens, no doubt sensing the weight of their stares.

We come upon a bustling market district near the fortress gates. Stalls of vibrant produce, mana-infused trinkets, and exotic fabrics fill the air with a kaleidoscope of smells and colors. Dark Elves haggle, their voices melodic but edged in cunning. Here and there, a human servant rushes by, arms laden with parcels. One stumbles, nearly tripping in fear when her gaze meets Lysandra’s. Then recognition sparks—she knows who Lysandra is. A flash of hope or terror crosses her face.

Lysandra tenses, lips parted. She steps toward the woman instinctively, but I clasp a hand around her arm. Not harshly, but firmly enough to halt her. The onlookers are already murmuring, some with open hostility.

“You can’t just approach them,” I say under my breath. “Not yet.”

She glares at me. “She’s terrified. Why do you think that is?”

I let out a short sigh. “Because she knows if the council sees her interacting with you, she’ll face punishment for consorting with a rebel. I’m preventing that.”

Lysandra’s nostrils flare. She wrenches her arm free, but the moment passes—the woman scurries off into the crowd. The market resumes its hum, though a handful of soldiers eye us warily from across the square.

“Tell me,” Lysandra says, voice tight, “what grand purpose is this serving, dragging me around to watch my people cower?”

I gesture for her to follow as I continue walking. “I want you to witness the breadth of this city’s workings. You rebelled because you believed a single blow could topple it. But Pyrthos is layered—an entire realm of commerce, devotion, and, yes, oppression.” I pause at a smaller shrine to the Hunter, where offerings of bones and carved figurines lie scattered. “This city’s lifeblood is the farmland, the gods, and the people’s fear. Tear one away, and the others react violently.”

She stares at the shrine, lips pressed thin. “So you’re telling me it’s impossible to break?”

“I’m telling you it requires finesse, not brute force. If you want real change, you need to play the game from within.”

She scoffs. “Which is exactly what you’re doing. Playing a game.”

I don’t deny it. Instead, I lead her through a short side street, flanked by tall, spiraling architecture. Balconies overhead brim with fluttering banners. Dark Elf children—few in number—peer down at us curiously, while a pair of batlaz (fox-like creatures trained as guard beasts) lounge near an entranceway. They perk up, baring fangs, but remain tethered.

As we cross into a quieter square, Rhazien appears from a side alley, inclining his head. “My prince,” he greets. Then his eyes flick to Lysandra. “You’re showing her the city?”

“Yes,” I say. “She needs to see exactly what stands between her and that farmland. How every stone is carefully placed to maintain order.”

Lysandra bristles. “I’m not some wide-eyed child. I understand well enough how your city stands on the backs of slaves.”

Rhazien’s gaze shifts between us. He’s never been subtle about disliking humans. “Be that as it may, humans aren’t the only ones laboring. Many Dark Elves in the lower castes also toil under taxes and decrees.”

She tilts her head. “So even your own kind is oppressed. You must be proud, forging such a utopia.”

I feel the tension spike, so I interject. “Rhazien, I trust you’ve heard about the farmland situation?”

His shoulders stiffen. “Yes. More rebels in hiding. If you plan to intervene, we should do so soon.”

Lysandra’s eyes flash with interest. “What do you mean by ‘intervene’? You found my people?”

Rhazien gives her a cold look. “We know pockets of them remain. The council is considering how best to exterminate them.”

She rounds on me, heart pounding—I can almost hear it. “You said you’d protect them.”

I hold her gaze. “I said I’d do what I can, provided you play your part. You have knowledge of their safe houses, do you not?”

She pales, anger warring with desperation. “You want me to betray them? So you can round them up yourself?”