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My jaw tightens. The thought of my people being rounded up and executed sets my heart racing with fury. But I can’t give him everything he wants, either.I am no traitor.

“Tricky, isn’t it?” he says softly, as though reading my inner turmoil. “You fight to keep their secrets, but every moment you hesitate means more casualties if the council intervenes.”

Bile rises in my throat. “Don’t pretend you care about casualties.”

He steps closer, stopping mere inches away. The heat of his body envelops me. “I don’t. Not in the sense you do. But I care about removing the council’s leverage. If saving your rebels from a bloodbath accomplishes that, I’m inclined to do it.”

My mind churns. I can’t just hand over the rebels’ positions—some of them might see me as a monster for cooperating with a Dark Elf. But if they die, that blood is also on my hands.

His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmurs. “I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head.”

I exhale, bristling at his proximity. “Would you step back?”

He doesn’t move. Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks. “Afraid of me?”

“Annoyed,” I snap, though that’s only half the truth. There’s an odd flutter beneath my ribs, a sensation I loathe to acknowledge.

Surprisingly, he eases away. “Fine. But we’ll speak again soon about your rebels. For now, I have a simpler request.”

“Great,” I mutter, turning toward the window to mask my roiling emotions. “What is it now?”

“Come with me. I have an… errand of sorts.”

I glance back at him. “An errand.”

He gives a cryptic shrug. “Think of it as a test of your composure. I’d like you to accompany me through part of the fortress—under my watchful eye, of course—and perhaps we’ll see how well you handle certain… unexpected situations.”

My skin prickles with suspicion. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll remain here, bored and caged. And I’ll have no choice but to parade you in chains at the next council session to prove you’re still under my control.”

The threat ignites fresh anger. “You’re a bastard, you know.”

He dips his head in a mock bow. “I’ve been called worse. Shall we?”

Gritting my teeth, I grab a cloak from the wardrobe—one of the garments I found earlier. It’s a dark, unadorned piece of cloth, but better than walking around the fortress in just breeches and a tunic that mark me as human. I swirl it over my shoulders and tie it tight.

He gestures to the door, stepping aside for me to lead. The moment I pass him, I feel a flicker of tension across my back, asif his gaze lingers far too long. I pretend not to notice. We move into the hallway, my boots clicking softly on the polished floor. Two guards posted near the antechamber start to follow, but Xelith lifts a hand.

“Stay here,” he orders. “I’ll escort her personally.”

The guards exchange uncertain glances but obey, stepping aside with murmured acknowledgments. My pulse thrums. Being alone with him in these corridors is almost more unsettling than having an audience.

We descend a spiral staircase that leads into a wide hall. Ornate tapestries depicting hunts and conquests line the walls, each with the familiar imagery of the Hunter—that hooded deity who thrives on cunning and pursuit. As we pass, I feel an odd tug inside me, like a whisper of warning.This entire fortress is a stage for cruelty,I remind myself.

At the corridor’s end, a large metal gate stands open. Beyond it, I glimpse a sprawling courtyard filled with motion. Soldiers sparring, lesser courtiers crossing from one wing to another, and at the far side, an enclosed garden shimmering with arcs of mana.

Xelith steers me toward the garden. Mana-lamps cast swirling patterns across the greenery—a variety of exotic flora that glows faintly in dim light, even though it’s midday. Tall hedges form winding paths, each twist and turn revealing a new arrangement of strange blossoms. The air is thick with the scent of sweet pollen and something electric—residual magic, I suspect.

He stops at an archway draped in vines. “Wait here,” he says, scanning the area.

I frown. “Why?”

Before he can answer, a scrawny young Dark Elf—hardly more than a boy—comes racing down the garden path, arms fullof scrolls. He skids to a halt upon spotting Xelith, fumbling as he bows. “M-my prince,” he stammers.

Xelith’s expression chills. “You’re late.”

“My apologies,” the youth says, panting. “It’s the new rosters. You requested them from the K’sheng keepers for farmland shipments?”