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My stomach knots. Part of me wants to spit in his face, rail that I’ll never compromise.

But a more pragmatic side—the same side that’s kept me alive this long—whispers that partial mercy is better than total annihilation.

The rebellion is in ruins, our people scattered.

If we keep dying in droves, we’ll never see real freedom.

Is it worth forging a temporary alliance with a cunning, exiled prince?

And beyond that… there’s something about him that draws me in, despite my hatred.

The way he observes me, as though he’s deciphering the puzzle of my existence.

The crackle of tension whenever he steps close, an awareness that pulses like a second heartbeat in the room.

I loathe the sense of attraction that creeps at the deepest recesses of my mind, but I can’t quite banish it.

“There’s no guarantee you won’t turn on me once you regain your precious throne,” I point out.

He shrugs, unbothered. “True. You can take that risk or decide you prefer a swift death.”

A loaded silence settles between us. I consider the labyrinth of potential outcomes.

If I reject him outright, he might indeed decide to serve my head to the council.

If I agree too readily, I become his puppet.

The middle ground is precarious—I must appear willing enough to keep him interested but remain vigilant.

That is, if I can quell the voice inside me that screams to fight or flee.

I fix him with a cool stare. “I’ll consider it.”

Amusement flickers in his gaze. “That’s more than I expected. Good. For now, let me show you around your new lodgings.” He stands, gesturing for me to follow.

Curiosity warred with caution in my chest. I rise from the chair, noting how close he’s come—near enough that I could jab an elbow into his ribs if needed. But I refrain. He’s right about the wards, and I suspect he’s trained enough to overpower me in seconds.

He leads me through the double doors into a corridor lit by faintly glowing orbs set in brass sconces.

Plush carpet muffles our steps. The walls are adorned with tapestries depicting swirling black shapes—perhaps illusions, or creatures formed of shadow.

One depicts a monstrous being rising from beneath the earth, devouring hapless figures.

Another portrays a lone Dark Elf standing on a cliff, arms outstretched to beckon swirling clouds of magic.

“These halls connect to my personal quarters and a few adjoining rooms,” Xelith explains, voice echoing slightly in the hush. “I’ve arranged a chamber for you here. You’ll be under my direct oversight, and fewer guards will linger outside your door. Provided you don’t attempt anything… rash.”

“How kind,” I say wryly, though I can’t help noticing the difference in ambiance.

Whereas the fortress corridors reeked of fear and discipline, this wing feels…

contained, a personal domain shaped by Xelith’s preferences.

Shadows pool in corners. Flickers of purple and blue mana arcs shift across the ceiling, forming patterns I can’t quite decipher.

He stops at a door on the right, planting his palm on the runic carvings.

They shimmer in recognition. The door opens silently, revealing a spacious room with a high-arched window.

Heavy curtains in midnight-blue velvet hang on either side, and a wide bed stands against one wall, layered with dark linens.

A low table sits near the window, flanked by two chairs.

My gaze sweeps the interior. It’s no prison cell—this is a noble’s guestroom, lavish by human standards. My battered reflection in a tall mirror by the bed is a stark contrast to the pristine elegance around me.

“Yours,” Xelith says softly, standing behind me. I feel the heat of his body as he leans in to speak near my ear. “Make what use of it you will. There’s a wash basin through the door on the left, fresh clothes in the wardrobe, and if you behave, I might allow you certain… freedoms.”

I spin to face him, ignoring the quickening of my pulse. “And if I misbehave? You cast me to the council?”

His lips curve into a dangerous smirk. “Or I punish you myself. I haven’t decided which would be more fun.” The low timbre of his voice sends an unwanted spark along my spine.

My throat feels suddenly tight. “You think you can keep me caged here indefinitely?”

“I think,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “that you’ll find it easier to survive by cooperating. This fortress is dangerous in ways you haven’t yet seen. I’m offering you a shield from the worst of it.”

I clench my fists. Every fiber rebels at the notion of relying on a Dark Elf’s protection. But the memory of the courtyard, blood-soaked and savage, reminds me how quickly humans die here. If I want to protect the few survivors of my rebellion, I need to tread carefully.

“Let’s say I don’t resist.” My voice cracks slightly, and I hate how vulnerable it sounds. “What’s your next move?”

He reaches out, and I flinch, half expecting him to grab me.

Instead, he grazes his gloved fingers along a stray lock of my hair, brushing it behind my ear.

The gesture is intimate enough to send my heart into a staccato beat.

“I’ll show you how to navigate Pyrthos without getting slaughtered.

In return, you provide me with insight into the human rebels—where they hide, what they fear, how they might be pacified or… repurposed.”

My mind latches onto his phrasing. Pacified. Repurposed. I swallow the bile rising in my throat. He’s talking about controlling them, not granting them real freedom. But if I keep him believing I’m on board, maybe I can gather enough information to strike back at the fortress from within.

“Fine,” I force out, each syllable heavy. “I’ll cooperate, for now.”

His gaze darkens, flicking to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“Good. That’s what I want to hear.” There’s an undercurrent of tension in the air, potent and undeniable.

A small, traitorous part of me acknowledges that he’s…

attractive in a lethal way, every movement coiled with contained strength.

I want to hate him, but the collision of hatred and fascination stirs a strange heat low in my belly.

I dismiss the thought, stepping away. “If I’m to stay here, I’d like a bath. Proper bandages. Maybe some real food instead of watery stew.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rolling. “All that can be arranged. As long as you remember your place.”

“My place?” I snap. “I’m no pet, Xelith.”

He tilts his head, that faint half-smile returning. “No. You’re a rebel with spirit, a thorn in the council’s side, and possibly my best chance at undermining them. Let’s not forget who holds the advantage.”

I grit my teeth, refusing to concede verbally. But he’s right. He holds every advantage. For now.

Before I can retort, he sweeps out of the room, leaving me alone. The door shuts behind him with a soft click—likely locked again, though in a more decorative frame. My shoulders slump as the tension drains. It’s exhausting, keeping up this constant clash of wills.

I scan the room again, taking in the lavish details.

A small side table holds an ornate pitcher of water and a silver bowl.

On impulse, I walk over, lift the pitcher, and pour the water into the bowl.

My reflection wavers on the surface. Bruises still mar my cheeks, and my dark hair is a ragged mess.

The faint candlelight picks out hollows under my eyes.

I hardly recognize this battered woman as the same rebel who once stood before her people, proclaiming they’d see a free tomorrow.

You’re not broken, I tell myself. Just cornered.

I set the pitcher down. A wave of fatigue hits, but there’s a restlessness inside me that won’t let me collapse yet.

I cross to the wardrobe, testing the handle.

Unlocked. Inside, I find several sets of clothing, all in dark hues—fine tunics, breeches, simple black dresses.

They look about my size, which means Xelith anticipated me wearing them.

The knowledge stings, but I grab a tunic and breeches anyway.

Better than the torn, bloodied outfit I’ve been wearing for days.

The adjoining door leads to a washroom that’s large enough to make me gawk.

A metal tub stands in the center, and a series of brass pipes feed into it.

Arcane runes adorn the walls, likely controlling temperature or water flow.

Even the floor is warm under my bare feet, courtesy of subtle heating spells.

I exhale a shaky breath, letting my guard drop just enough to enjoy the idea of a hot bath.

Stripping off my battered clothes, I fill the tub.

Steam rises, carrying a faint floral scent from the enchanted pipes.

I slip into the water, hissing as it stings the cuts on my arms and chest. But the heat soothes my bruised muscles, coaxing tension from my limbs.

I close my eyes, letting the water cradle me for a few stolen minutes of peace.

In the silence, my thoughts wander to the farmland beyond Pyrthos. The rebels who once followed me are likely imprisoned, or worse. Have I failed them beyond repair? The notion weighs heavily. If forging a deal with Xelith means saving at least some of them, do I have the right to refuse?

Steam curls around me. My hair fans out, tangling with the water, and I can’t help thinking how bizarre it is to be bathing in luxury while humans starve or rot in cells not far away.

My nails dig into my palms. I won’t lose sight of my goal.

One day, we’ll topple these towers. Even if I have to use Xelith’s own ambition to do it.