Page 10

LYSANDRA

I wake to a sudden jolt when a guard grips my shoulder, shaking me out of a shallow, uneasy sleep.

My eyes fly open, heart thudding, and my first thought is that I’ve overslept—though overslept for what , I can’t say.

Time feels distorted in this fortress, ruled by shadows and flickering torchlight.

The guard doesn’t offer an explanation. He just yanks me upright, manacles rattling at my wrists.

“Get up,” he snaps, and I swallow a surge of anger. No point in lashing out blindly. I learned that lesson the hard way on the day they slaughtered my rebellion in Pyrthos’s courtyard.

I force myself to stand without toppling. My ribs ache, but at least I’m no longer losing blood by the hour. Thanks to Halren’s bandages, I might actually keep going for another day or two—long enough, I hope, to find a way to escape. Or a way to use the exiled prince’s twisted interest in me.

Through the haze of my half-conscious mind, I recall Xelith’s last words: If you want to keep breathing… you’ll answer to me. He didn’t sound particularly gentle or kind, yet I’m still alive. For now.

The guard gestures to another soldier, who unlocks the door to my cramped suite. They push me into the corridor. Unlike before, there’s no public parade through the fortress halls. Two guards flank me, each with a hand on my arms, guiding me through winding passages I haven’t seen yet.

A prickle of apprehension makes the hair on my neck rise. We’re descending deeper into the fortress, away from the well-trod main corridors. The air grows cooler, and the smell of damp stone and old spells hits my nose. My heart pounds with every step, uncertain what fresh nightmare awaits.

This is the moment they take me to some hidden dungeon, I think grimly.

But the guard on my right mutters something about “the prince’s quarters.

” His partner snorts an acknowledgment, and I realize we’re not heading to another dank cell.

This route, if memory serves, leads toward a series of restricted wings that only high-ranking Dark Elves (or exiled ones with secret influence, apparently) can access.

Eventually, the corridor widens, torches lighting a path that splits in two directions.

The guards steer me left. Dark wood doors with intricate runes line the hall, each giving off faint pulses of magic.

I can almost feel the wards hum beneath my skin.

My captors halt at the third door on the left, and one raises his hand.

An amethyst glow flares across the carvings, and the door eases open.

“In,” the guard says, shoving me forward.

I stumble into what appears to be a large antechamber—opulent, by fortress standards.

A plush rug in swirling black-and-crimson patterns covers the stone floor.

Matching chairs flank a low table carved from dark wood.

Shelves line the walls, holding books, peculiar sculptures, and small caged lights that shimmer with contained mana.

The door slams behind me, and my senses roar with awareness. This place reeks of power. Not just the stored magical artifacts, but Xelith’s presence. I can’t see him yet, but it feels as if the room breathes his essence—cool, controlled, and vaguely predatory.

Before I can gather my bearings, another door within the chamber opens.

Xelith steps out, wearing a high-collared tunic of black silk, fitted trousers, and polished boots.

Silver war sigils glint on his forearms, stark against his obsidian skin.

His hair, white as fresh snow, cascades loose around his shoulders.

The flicker of torchlight highlights the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the faint curve of his mouth—somewhere between amusement and disapproval.

“Lysandra.” He says my name quietly, yet it carries across the room as if he’s spoken it right beside me. “You’re awake. Good. I trust the guards treated you… well enough?”

I stiffen, holding his gaze. “Depends on your definition of ‘well.’ I’m still in chains, if you hadn’t noticed.”

His eyes flick to the manacles. “A precaution, sadly. Some of my subordinates believe you’ll snap their necks if given the chance.”

The corner of my lips lifts in a humorless smile. “They’re not wrong.”

He doesn’t flinch—if anything, his expression warms with a flicker of intrigue. “Which is precisely why I brought you here. My private holding.” He waves a hand, indicating the lavish surroundings. “Safer for both of us than leaving you in the lesser hall or the dungeons.”

“How thoughtful,” I mutter, rolling my aching shoulders. “I didn’t realize you cared so much about my comfort.”

“I care about your potential,” he corrects, stepping closer.

The air seems to tighten as he approaches, as though the entire fortress holds its breath.

I catch the faintest trace of some exotic scent clinging to his clothes—night-blooming flowers mixed with something sharper.

“You interest me, Lysandra. I want to see how far you can go before you break.”

My heart lurches, but I won’t let him see fear. “So this is another game to you? Drag me to your private quarters, keep me under constant watch, and see if I’ll beg for mercy?”

Xelith tilts his head, a gesture reminiscent of a cat studying prey. “It can be a game, or it can be something else entirely. That choice belongs to you as much as it does to me.”

“Your illusions of choice are getting old,” I snap, tugging at my chains. “I have none, and you know it.”

His silver eyes glimmer with faint violet undertones. “You’d be surprised how many choices remain, even now.” He gestures to a guard standing by the door. “Remove the shackles.”

The guard gives him a startled glance. “But—my prince?—”

“I said remove them,” Xelith repeats, voice as soft as it is lethal. “She’s in my domain. Unless you doubt my ability to contain her if she tries anything foolish?”

A flicker of terror crosses the guard’s face. He fumbles for the key, then unlocks my manacles with shaky hands. When the metal falls away, relief floods my wrists. Angry red lines remain, proof of how long I’ve been bound. I rub the marks, ignoring how Xelith’s gaze follows the movement.

“Out,” Xelith commands the guard. The soldier bows and departs, shutting the door behind him. Silence envelops the chamber, leaving me alone with a Dark Elf whose motivations remain maddeningly opaque.

I flex my fingers, a small sense of freedom returning, but I’m not naive. Wards no doubt protect every exit in this room. Xelith must see my calculating stare because he smirks.

“You won’t get far if you try to run,” he says, gesturing to the tall double doors on the opposite side of the antechamber.

“That leads to my personal suites. My bedchamber, study, and a few other rooms. The entire wing is warded. If you breach the boundary without my permission, you’ll set off alarms that will bring half the fortress down on you. ”

“How very considerate,” I say drily. “So you’ve stripped me of my shackles, only to trap me in a more gilded cage.”

He nods, unashamed. “Exactly.” Then he waves me toward a chair. “Sit. We have matters to discuss.”

I’m tempted to remain standing out of pure defiance, but exhaustion throbs in my legs.

I sink onto the plush cushion, noticing how the seat envelops me in surprising comfort.

A subtle, traitorous part of me relishes it, if only because I’ve been sleeping on hard slabs of stone.

My pride bristles at the thought of accepting any comfort from him, but I push that aside for the moment.

Xelith seats himself opposite me, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

The stance highlights the silver war sigils etched into his forearms. Each swirl and curve testifies to noble lineage.

Though exiled, he still claims a measure of dark prestige here.

Enough to defy the council by keeping me alive, evidently.

“Why drag me here?” I ask, meeting his gaze head-on. “You already said you’re interested in me, in my defiance. But that can’t be the only reason.”

He sighs, almost as if indulging a child.

“The council wants you dead, and in return for your head, they’d lift my exile.

I’d regain full standing among the Khuzuth caste.

Possibly reclaim my ancestral seat.” His mouth curls in distaste.

“That path is there if I want it. I could present them your severed head tomorrow and watch them grovel, praising my loyalty.”

I clench my jaw. “Then what’s stopping you?”

A thin smile. “I’m not loyal to them. They exiled me for a reason, Lysandra. I might despise your kind in general—” he pauses, letting the sting land, “—but I despise the council’s stranglehold even more.”

A simmering sense of possibility stirs in my chest. If he hates the council, can I use that? Yet caution urges me to hold back. “That’s a fancy way of saying you’re no saint.”

“I’m far from it,” he admits. His eyes narrow, gleaming with a predatory light. “Don’t mistake me for a benevolent savior. Keeping you alive serves my interests. If you prove… obliging, we can help each other.”

“Obliging?” I echo, the word tasting bitter. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“You want your people safe, correct? The humans you rallied under your banner?” He leans forward.

“I can’t magically grant them freedom overnight, but I can ensure they survive.

If I regain influence, I could dictate more lenient policies, reduce the brutality.

In return, you’d keep them from sparking open rebellions that inevitably end in bloodshed. ”