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“Hmm.” He seems unperturbed. “Your defiance is admirable. But defiance alone won’t keep you alive.”

I want to hurl the table at him, rattle these chains like a rabid beast, anything to end this hateful dance. But logic keeps me still. The fresh bruise on my ribs reminds me I’m in no condition for another fight. And for all my bravado, the sight of my dead comrades in the courtyard still haunts me.

“Do you plan to torture me for the information?” I force the question out, refusing to let fear show.

He cocks his head, that silver hair glinting. “Torture is messy and often unreliable. I prefer more nuanced methods. But I won’t pretend to be merciful, Lysandra. You’re valuable only as long as you can provide me with something useful.”

I seethe at his frankness. “And if I refuse to talk? You throw me to the council?”

For a moment, he’s silent. Then he moves closer, so close I catch the faint scent of something cool and sharp, like a midnight breeze off deep water. My heart thuds against my ribs, but I don’t back down.

His voice drops, the tone almost intimate. “Perhaps I keep you for myself. There are many ways a rebel leader could prove entertaining.”

Revulsion and an unexpected flicker of heat coil in my gut. I slam my shoulder forward, ignoring the pain. “Entertaining? You sick bastard.”

He sidesteps just enough to avoid the brunt of my lunge, then snatches the chain between my wrists. The metal digs into my skin, forcing me still. We lock eyes—his glimmer with a predatory light, and I feel the tension rising between us, more savage and immediate than I expected.

“You hate us that much,” he murmurs, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

“More than you can imagine,” I hiss, twisting in his grip. But no matter how I jerk, the chain remains firm in his hand.

He regards me, unblinking. “I’m offering you a chance, Lysandra. While the rest of your rebels die in the dungeons, you might secure at least a semblance of freedom—or bargain for their lives—if you play this right.”

My vision wavers with anger. That’s how he aims to break me—dangling the fate of my people in front of me like bait. I want to scream at him, tear him apart. But the weight of the day’s battle crushes me, and reality seeps in. As long as I’m alive, I can still think, still maneuver. If I die, who will fight for the survivors?

“You want me to cooperate,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “What does that entail? Me feeding you every last detail of my rebellion so you can finish wiping us out?”

His lips twitch, as if suppressing a wry smile. “Not necessarily. I have little love for the ruling council. I’m an exile for a reason.”

I narrow my eyes. “You think that makes you sympathetic? Save it.”

He doesn’t release the chain, and the closeness is suffocating. I can’t keep him at a safe distance without yanking uselessly on my bindings. Finally, he exhales and lets the chain slip from his fingers, stepping away.

“You’re exhausted,” he says, his voice softening. “The guards told me about your injuries. There’s a washbasin in the adjoining room. Use it. I’ll have a meal brought in.”

I stare at him, heart pounding. Is he truly offering me comfort? My suspicion deepens, but I can’t deny that I’m hungry, parched, and need tending to my wounds.

“This is some trick,” I mutter.

He shrugs, crossing his arms again. “Call it a small kindness—or a strategic move. Either way, refusing it won’t help your cause.” His gaze skims over my battered form. “You’ve provenyour spirit. Now prove your intelligence. Restore your strength, and maybe we’ll find common ground.”

I hate that a small part of me sees the logic in his words. If I’m going to help any surviving rebels, I need to stay alive, remain sharp. So I swallow my pride for the moment. “Fine.”

“Good.” He moves toward the door, pausing to glance back at me. “We’ll speak again soon, Lysandra Riven. Think carefully about where your loyalties—and your survival—truly lie.”

With that, he slips out, shutting the door behind him. I listen for a lock, a bolt, any sign that I’m sealed in. But the silence remains, broken only by the distant hum of fortress activity. Testing the handle, I find it locked from outside.Of course.

The chain around my wrists feels heavier somehow, even though he’s no longer holding it. My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale, and I sag against the table. My ribs scream in protest. I press a hand gingerly to my side, wincing at the sticky feel of half-dried blood.

I’m alone now, but I can’t relax. My mind spins with everything that just happened. The aftermath of the battle, the courtyard strewn with corpses, the terrifying possibility that the rest of my people are either dead or in chains. And then there’s Prince Xelith—calm, assured, exiled but still powerful. He claims he has no love for the council, but he’s still a Dark Elf. He still stands for everything I hate.

A small, treacherous voice in my mind whispers that he could be the key to saving whoever remains. If there’s a wedge between him and the other dark elves, maybe I can exploit it. It’s risky. He’s clearly not one to be manipulated easily. But I have few options left.

I slump into one of the chairs, the chain clanking. My stomach knots with hunger, but weariness outstrips it. I press my face in my hands—careful to avoid pressing on the bruises—and let out a shaking breath. My body feels like it’s teetering on a knife’s edge, any movement threatening to tip me into oblivion.

After a moment, I force myself upright and shuffle to the adjoining door. It leads into a small washroom with a tarnished brass basin and a pitcher of water. A narrow slit of a window near the ceiling provides enough light to reveal the grime on my face and arms. My reflection in the water shows a pale, angular face smudged with dirt, storm-gray eyes shadowed by exhaustion, and a mouth set in a grim line. My hair, usually a sleek raven black, hangs in tangled knots.

I pour water into the basin and dip my fingers in. The chill jolts me, but I bite back a gasp, letting the sensation ground me. Cleaning myself is difficult with the chain restricting my wrists, but I manage to splash the worst of the dirt and blood away. The motion sends twinges of pain through my shoulder and side, but it’s better than allowing my wounds to fester. I dab at a gash on my forearm, wincing when the scab peels. No bandages, no salve—just water. Typical.