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LYSANDRA

I taste blood in my mouth, coppery and thick.

My own? Someone else’s? Hard to tell after the carnage I’ve just witnessed.

My head throbs, my vision blurs, and yet I fight to keep my spine straight.

The Dark Elf guard behind me yanks on the chains around my wrists, forcing me deeper into the courtyard of Pyrthos Fortress.

I stumble. The cobblestones are slick with mud and gore—remnants of the rebellion I led, now lying in twisted heaps around me.

My left shoulder throbs where a crossbow bolt grazed me earlier, but I grit my teeth and push the pain aside.

Crumpling is the one thing I refuse to do, not when my people died hoping I could achieve something greater than this humiliation.

The fortress courtyard sprawls beneath a sky streaked with orange and purple, the final throes of daylight reflected on the black walls.

Pyrthos is infamous for these high battlements of polished obsidian that glimmer like a predator’s eyes.

Dark Elf soldiers cluster around makeshift pyres, disposing of human corpses.

My stomach churns at the sight. In the distance, I see a few battered survivors being dragged into one of the side gates.

That’s the last glimpse I get before a soldier shoves my head down.

“Move.” His voice grates on my nerves. He’s tall, even by Dark Elf standards, with coarse silver hair braided tight against his scalp. His gauntlet presses hard into my shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain from me.

I swallow the urge to spit at him. The chain around my wrists rattles, reminding me that if I act on my fury right now, I’ll gain nothing but a swift blow to the skull. Instead, I force my gaze up, letting him see the hatred in my eyes. “I’m moving,” I manage through clenched teeth.

He grunts, obviously unimpressed. “You rebel scum. Should’ve executed you along with the rest.”

“I’d love to watch you try,” I snap, earning myself a sharp twist of the chain. My wrists scream in protest.

I’m dragged forward, across the courtyard where the swirling insignia of the Hunter—the deity revered in Pyrthos—stares up from the mosaic on the ground.

I make out the shape of a great hound mid-pounce, carved in black stone.

All around me, Dark Elves stand tall, their pointed ears and silver hair marking them as creatures of lethal grace.

They look at me with a mixture of fascination and contempt, whispering behind gauntleted hands or twisted smiles.

I clench my jaw. Let them whisper. My rebellion may be in tatters, but the fire in my chest refuses to die. I will not kneel. Not here, not now, not ever.

A contingent of guards stands by an inner portcullis. One of them steps forward. She’s slender, her obsidian skin glistening under the flame of nearby torches. Her violet eyes flick over me, calculating. “This is Lysandra Riven?” she asks the soldier holding my chain.

He nods. “Captured her while her rebels tried breaching the farmland gates. Killed at least a dozen of our men in the skirmish.”

Her gaze shifts to me. I meet it head-on, refusing to lower my eyes. “You cost us many soldiers,” she says softly, an undercurrent of danger in each syllable. “King Throsh won’t let such insolence go unanswered.”

My pulse hammers. I recall the farmland blazing at dawn, the wards flickering as we tried to sabotage them, the Dark Elf knights converging faster than we could react.

Someone must have tipped them off. My people never stood a chance.

The rage swirling in my gut threatens to boil over.

“I don’t answer to your king,” I say, barely managing to keep my voice steady.

Her mouth curves in a slow sneer. “Then you’ll answer to Prince Xelith Vaeranthe.”

I’ve heard that name whispered among humans—an exiled prince rumored to be as cunning as he is cruel.

Some say he struck a bargain with one of the thirteen Dark Elven gods sleeping under the crust of Protheka, granting him power over shadows.

Others claim he was banished for treason, stripped of his titles but still clinging to influence.

Either way, he’s dangerous. I can practically taste the wariness of the guards when they mention him.

The soldier tugs on my manacles again, pulling me toward a flight of worn stone steps. I hazard a glance over my shoulder at the courtyard. Blood pools in shallow depressions, bodies heaped near the walls, waiting to be discarded like trash. The sight rips at my heart.

I failed them. The thought stings like acid. I fought so hard to unify small groups of rebels scattered across the farmland. We’d dreamed of a day when humans wouldn’t labor under the lash, wouldn’t live or die by the whims of these elves. For a moment, it had almost felt possible.

“Stop gawking,” the soldier snaps, dragging me forward.

We climb the steps leading to an imposing set of double doors.

Massive iron knockers shaped like coiled serpents hang there.

At a curt command from one of the guards, the doors swing inward, revealing a corridor lit by flickering torches.

The air inside smells of incense and old stone.

They march me down a hallway lined with tapestries displaying hunts and battles, all from a Dark Elf perspective. I see stylized images of humans cowering or kneeling in surrender. My hands ball into fists around the chain, the iron biting into my skin. One day, I vow, we’ll tear these down.

We come to a second set of doors guarded by four soldiers. They tense at our approach, spears angled forward. One of them—tall, with a shimmering black cloak—steps up to the soldier holding me. “Her?”

The soldier nods. “Yes. Prince Xelith’s orders are to bring her in alive.”

“Interesting.” The cloaked guard glances at me. “He must have a use for her.”

Before I can snap some retort, they unlatch the doors and wave us inside.

I step into a grand hall, the ceiling arching so high it fades into darkness.

A chandelier fashioned from twisted iron rods and glowing mana-stones casts a cold light, illuminating the mosaic beneath my feet.

This one depicts the Hunter guiding an arrow toward a fleeing stag—another testament to Pyrthos’s savage devotion.

Scattered around the hall are plush chairs and settees upholstered in dark velvet.

It could almost be mistaken for a royal lounge, if not for the fact that each occupant is armed.

A hush falls as I enter. I sense curious eyes on me, some gleaming with sadistic interest, others with idle disdain.

Every nerve in my body screams to fight or flee, but the chain restricting my wrists keeps me in check.

A figure at the far side of the hall rises from a carved wooden seat.

He’s dressed in obsidian-black armor layered with delicate silver filigree, each swirl reminiscent of arcane runes.

His hair, stark white, falls past his shoulders in a silken curtain.

His skin is dark as midnight, and a series of ornate markings—silver war sigils—adorn his forearms. Even from a distance, his presence seems to command the room.

I know who he must be: Prince Xelith Vaeranthe. Exile or not, the power rolling off him is palpable. He descends a few steps, dark boots clicking on the polished floor. His eyes lock on me, and I swear they glimmer with faint amusement.

He stops a short distance away, crossing his arms over his chest. “So you’re the one who thought attacking Pyrthos was a wise move.” His voice is low, carrying a dangerous resonance that echoes in the silence. “Lysandra Riven, I presume.”

I lift my chin, ignoring how my raw wrists burn. “I prefer not to hide my face behind a fortress and an army, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Soft laughter breaks from a few spectators. Xelith doesn’t react with anger. Instead, his lips curve in a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bold words, coming from someone in chains.”

The soldier holding my chain clears his throat. “My prince, the council demanded we make an example of her. But you?—”

“I know what the council demanded,” Xelith interrupts. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “They’ll have to wait.” He flicks his hand in a gesture so casual it’s almost dismissive. “Bring her into the lesser hall. I’d like a private conversation.”

The soldier tenses. “Should I inform the high guard?”

“No need.” Xelith’s voice remains smooth, but there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of command. “Just do as you’re told.”

The tension in the room thickens. No one dares question him further.

With a jerk on my chain, the soldier hauls me along, and we follow Xelith through a side archway.

The corridor beyond is narrower, less lavish than the grand hall, but still lined with flickering sconces shaped like serpentine creatures.

My gaze flicks between them, searching for weaknesses, hidden passages—anything.

But everything seems meticulously crafted.

I catch glimpses of more wounded humans in side alcoves, either unconscious or shackled to iron rings in the walls. My stomach twists, but I force myself to keep marching. I memorize each turn, each detail of the fortress’s layout. If I manage to break free, I’ll need every advantage I can glean.

We come to a wooden door carved with swirling runes.

Xelith pushes it open and steps aside, indicating the soldier should take me in.

I enter a smaller room with a high, narrow window near the ceiling that spills in a meager wash of evening light.

A single table stands in the center, its surface scratched and stained.

Two chairs face each other. Tapestries with hunting motifs line the walls, but they’re muted here—less extravagant than in the main hall.

The soldier shoves me forward, and I catch myself against the table’s edge, biting back a grimace. Before I can recover, Xelith’s voice cuts through the space.

“Leave us.”