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Time drifts until the water cools. I climb out, wrap myself in a plush towel, and carefully inspect the fresh bandages.

They’ll need changing soon, but at least I’m no longer bleeding.

I dress in the black tunic and breeches, cinching them at the waist. The soft fabric is a stark contrast to the rough leathers I wore before.

Back in the bedroom, I catch a glimpse of movement at the threshold.

A tray of food sits on the side table—someone must have slipped in while I bathed, silent as a shadow.

My stomach rumbles. On the tray, I find slices of roasted taura with spiced vegetables, a small loaf of dark bread, and a pitcher of water tinged with a citrusy aroma.

My wariness flares. But if Xelith wanted me dead, he could have done it in a far more brutal, public way. Poison seems unnecessary.

So I eat, each bite fueling me. The roasted meat is tender, the vegetables rich with unfamiliar seasonings. I hate how my body craves it, how good it feels to fill the hollow ache in my belly. When I finish, I push the tray away and sink onto the bed, which is far too soft and inviting.

A faint sense of surrealism grips me. Less than a day ago, I was chained in a grim cell, sure I’d be executed.

Now, I’m in Xelith’s private wing, eating real food, wearing clean clothes.

The fortress remains a prison, but I’ve stepped into a new realm within it—one where Xelith wields power behind the scenes, untouchable by the lesser ranks.

This forced proximity means I have a chance to observe him more closely… and possibly exploit any weaknesses.

Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. I lie down, my side supported by the plush bedding, muscles grateful for the respite. Despite the cushion, tension knots in my shoulders. I can’t forget that I’m a captive. Xelith’s captive. This comfortable room is a gilded cage, nothing more.

I drift for a while, half-dozing, half-alert for any sign of movement. At some point, footsteps echo in the corridor. My body tenses. The door opens, revealing Xelith’s tall silhouette against the corridor’s light. He steps inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.

I bolt upright, heart pounding. “Do you have a habit of entering without knocking?” I ask, voice raspier than intended.

He shrugs, crossing the distance with unhurried grace. “This is my wing. You’re the guest here, remember?”

“Guest,” I echo, bitterness creeping in. “Right.”

He stops a foot away from the bed, gaze drifting over me.

The tension thickens as if the air itself coils.

My pulse quickens, and heat gathers at the base of my spine, though I loathe how my body reacts.

We’re enemies. We’re locked in a battle of wits and wills.

So why does his presence make my blood thrum?

“Are you settling in?” he asks, voice softer now, lacking the arrogance he displayed earlier.

I lift my chin. “It’s better than a damp cell. But don’t expect me to be grateful.”

He nods, something like amusement glinting in his eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.”

The silence crackles. My hand clenches the bedsheet, an anchor against the swirl of conflicting emotions.

I sense his attention lingering on the curve of my cheek, on my damp hair.

I hate the rush of warmth coursing through me at the thought that he might find me…

appealing. Yet I can’t deny the undercurrent of attraction that hums beneath the animosity.

“Your bath was acceptable?” he asks, almost too casually.

I fight a scoff. “It served its purpose.”

He inclines his head. “Good. You need to regain your strength. Tomorrow, I have plans to walk the fortress with you—show you certain areas, gauge your reactions. If we’re to present a united front to the council, we must appear… cooperative.”

A surge of apprehension warps my stomach. “You’re parading me around the fortress like I’m your docile pet?”

“An unfortunate necessity,” he says, folding his arms. “You have a role to play. That role includes convincing others you’re no longer a threat—that I’ve ‘tamed’ you enough to keep you on a leash, so to speak.”

Anger flashes. “I will never be tamed.”

He leans down, bracing a hand on the bed beside my hip. I smell the faint spice of his magic, cool and dark. “Careful with that fire, Lysandra. You might burn the wrong people if you’re not selective.”

My heart thrashes in my chest, but I don’t move.

Our faces hover inches apart. Even in the dim light, I see the faint violet glow that stirs in his eyes when he’s…

intrigued. We linger in that charged space, his breath fanning across my skin.

For a moment, everything else falls away—the council, the fortress, even the rebellion.

There’s only the quiet press of desire tangled with hatred.

I tear my gaze from his, forcing a shaky breath. “You said it yourself—this is a game. You want to see me perform. Fine. But don’t mistake cooperation for surrender.”

He straightens, a slow grin curving his lips. “I wouldn’t dare. Your spirit is precisely what I want intact.” With that, he steps back, as if severing an invisible cord between us.

Every nerve in my body crackles with leftover tension. “What now?” I ask, trying to steady my voice.

“Rest.” He moves toward the door. “Tomorrow, we show Pyrthos that you’ve been… subdued. But only enough to keep the peace.”

My stomach coils at the thought. “And if I fail this little charade?”

He looks back, expression unreadable. “Then the council will demand your head, and I may be forced to give it to them.”

I grit my teeth, refusing to show fear. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He lingers in the doorway, eyes drifting over me one last time. The hush in the room deepens, laden with unsaid words, unacknowledged tension. Then he inclines his head in a mockery of a bow and slips out, leaving me alone again.

The door clicks shut. I exhale, trembling with pent-up energy. My life has become a high-wire act. One misstep, one moment of weakness, and I’m done. Yet in some twisted way, I now have a vantage point—Xelith’s private domain—where I can glean secrets the rest of my people never could.

Is it worth the risk? My heart pounds with dread… and an unfamiliar flicker of excitement. The forced proximity with Xelith is like a dance, each step a challenge, each breath an opening for something darker than hatred.

I sink back against the pillows, mind churning.

Tomorrow, I’ll walk the fortress at his side, playing the role of subdued captive.

Meanwhile, I’ll be watching every guard shift, every hidden corridor, searching for vulnerabilities.

I’ll do whatever it takes to preserve what remains of the rebellion—and, if possible, to unseat the tyranny that grips this city.

Above me, the ceiling glimmers with subtle arcs of mana, forming shapes that vanish as soon as I try to focus.

I close my eyes, the softness of the bed paradoxically reminding me of how harsh reality is.

Xelith thinks he can keep me under his spell, that I’ll dance to his tune. Maybe I will, for a time.

But I vow silently, I will not lose myself in the process.

I drift into an uneasy sleep, haunted by the memory of his dark gaze and the knowledge that, however unwillingly, we’re bound together in this precarious alliance—both searching for a power that might cost us everything.