Page 13

XELITH

M orning light filters through the narrow windows of my private wing, illuminating the polished stone corridors with pale silver.

I stand in the antechamber just beyond my own quarters, arms folded as I contemplate the situation I’ve willingly thrust myself into.

Lysandra Riven, a human rebel with enough fire in her eyes to spark chaos in a single glance, now occupies the adjoining room.

Last night, I left her there—unshackled, but heavily warded—half amused and half uneasy about my own decisions.

Today, I need answers from her. And more than that, I need to decide how best to handle the remnants of her rebellion still lurking in the Pyrthos farmland. Their presence offers both an opportunity and a threat.

I sense movement at my back. Rhazien, my longtime second-in-command, clears his throat.

He stands at a respectful distance, waiting for me to acknowledge him.

I cast a glance over my shoulder. The torchlight catches on his dark-green eyes, set in an angular face, and dances across the tidy braids pinned at the back of his head.

He’s shorter than me by a hand’s breadth, his build stocky for a Dark Elf, but he’s proven his loyalty countless times.

“Speak,” I say, turning fully to face him.

He dips his chin. “My prince, we’ve received a report from one of our scouts stationed near the farmland. Seems there are clusters of human rebels still hiding in abandoned storehouses and drainage tunnels.”

My pulse quickens with interest. “How many?”

He glances down at a small parchment. “Difficult to say precisely. Possibly two or three dozen in each scattered group, all lacking real leadership—especially since Lysandra was captured.”

An unbidden wave of satisfaction flickers through me. So they are lost without her. My gaze settles on Rhazien’s face. “Do we have confirmation they’re planning another raid?”

He shakes his head. “They appear disorganized, frightened. More likely they’re foraging for basic supplies or waiting for an opportunity to flee Pyrthos altogether. The farmland watchtowers are on high alert, so escaping unnoticed will be difficult.”

I let out a slow breath. This is precisely the type of situation I expected. “And the council? Have they caught wind of these stragglers?”

“Rumors have begun circulating,” Rhazien admits.

“Most figure it’s just a matter of time before the rebels starve or are hunted down.

Still, some council members seem keen on a public crackdown—raids in the farmland, mass arrests.

But King Throsh’s ministers have other priorities, namely ensuring the farmland meets production quotas. ”

I nod. That’s the crux: if the farmland is thrown into chaos, the entire city’s food supply suffers. The council can’t risk that, so they’re caught between wanting to eliminate rebel activity and needing the humans to remain productive. It’s a delicate balance, one I plan to exploit.

Rhazien shifts, pressing his lips into a thin line. “If you plan to do anything about these rebels, you’ll need to move quickly. Once the council formalizes their next steps, you lose any chance to claim them for yourself.”

I arch a brow. “Claim them for myself, Rhazien?”

He meets my gaze, unflinching. “We both know you didn’t keep Lysandra alive out of pure mercy. If you can wrangle her rebels too, you’ll wield considerable leverage. You could negotiate better terms with the council, maybe even accelerate the end of your exile.”

My lips curl in a half-smile. “And you disapprove?”

His features tighten. “I merely question your… motives. You’re risking a direct confrontation with powerful nobles who still hold grudges against you. If Lysandra fails to deliver on controlling her people, or if she betrays you, we could be left more vulnerable than ever.”

I let silence stretch between us. Rhazien has served me for years—long enough to speak his mind, albeit carefully. “You doubt my ability to handle a single human woman?” I ask lightly.

He shakes his head. “No. But you seem… fascinated by her. It’s affecting your judgment.”

A flicker of annoyance sparks in me. I keep my voice level. “We’ve come this far, Rhazien. I have no intention of letting her slip through my fingers or unravel my plans. Rest assured, my fascination, as you call it, remains secondary to my goal.”

Rhazien sighs, though he inclines his head. “Very well. But tread carefully.”

I dismiss him with a nod, turning away. As his footsteps fade, I push open the door leading to a side corridor that connects to Lysandra’s chamber.

I pass under softly glowing wards that recognize my magical signature.

The runes etched into the walls ripple, parting like invisible veils.

Another day, another series of games with Lysandra.

In the small foyer outside her room, I find Eiroren awaiting me.

She stands tall, clad in fitted robes of charcoal gray with silver trim.

Her pale hair is braided in an ornate style that suggests she expects an important event.

Or she’s simply preening, as lesser nobles often do. She offers a shallow bow.

“My prince,” Eiroren says, eyes flicking to the closed door ahead. “I hear you plan to escort our human guest through the city.”

I nod curtly. “It’s time she sees how Pyrthos truly functions—and how precarious her position is here.” I pause, noting the glint in Eiroren’s eyes. “You disapprove as well?”

She feigns a polite smile. “It’s not my place to disapprove, my prince. Merely to observe. But you should know, some in the fortress whisper that you’ve grown… soft.”

“Soft.” I repeat the word, tasting its absurdity. “Because I see value where they see a corpse?”

“Precisely,” she murmurs, fiddling with the silver chain at her throat. “And we both know this city worships the Hunter—an unyielding deity who respects cunning and ruthlessness. If the rumor spreads that you’re coddling a rebel…”

I let out a short laugh. “Then let them see what my version of ‘soft’ looks like.” My tone edges toward danger. Eiroren lowers her gaze, understanding the warning.

She steps aside as I approach Lysandra’s door.

I give one firm knock before pushing it open.

Inside, sunlight spills through tall windows, falling upon Lysandra as she stands by a small table.

She’s dressed in plain black breeches and a fitted tunic, hair braided loosely over her shoulder, exposing the bruises still fading along her neck.

The sight sends a subtle jolt of satisfaction—and some unwanted warmth—through me.

She looks stronger today, more herself, though still glaring with that fierce brand of defiance.

“Good morning,” I say. “I trust you slept better than you did in the dungeons.”

Her gray eyes glint. “Better is relative.” She glances at Eiroren, whose presence stiffens the air, then back at me. “What do you want?”

I ignore her impertinent tone. “We’re going for a walk.” I tilt my head toward the corridor. “You need to see Pyrthos beyond these walls.”

Suspicion flares in her expression. “And if I refuse?”

I shrug. “I’ll have you escorted by armed guards who relish the chance to remind you of your status. Your choice.”

She sets her jaw, something like resignation flickering across her features. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

I hold out an arm toward the hall, a mockery of chivalry. She sweeps past me without a second glance, and I catch a whiff of soap and something faintly floral that wasn’t there yesterday. I don’t let myself dwell on it, though a flicker of appreciation stirs in my chest.

Eiroren lingers outside, offering Lysandra a cold, measuring look. “I’ll remain here, my prince,” she says softly. “There are… administrative matters to attend to.”

“Of course,” I reply. There’s no mistaking her subtext: she’s giving us space, but she’ll be watching for any misstep. Good. She can whisper her observations to the lesser nobles—let them see how I handle Lysandra.

I lead Lysandra down the corridor, the wards parting again at our approach.

She tenses every time the runes spark to life, as if expecting them to attack.

The corners of my mouth twitch with amusement.

She doesn’t yet grasp how precisely I control these wards.

We descend a short flight of steps, arriving at a side door that opens onto a balcony overlooking the main thoroughfare of Pyrthos.

I push open the heavy door and gesture for her to step outside.

She does so slowly, her gaze sweeping over the cityscape unfolding below.

White sunlight illuminates rows of slate rooftops, decorative spires, and the bustling crowds that fill the streets.

Far beyond, the farmland spreads, a patchwork of green and gold dotted with scattered huts.

Her posture stiffens at the sight. Perhaps she’s recalling her failed rebellion, how close she came to toppling the wards. Or maybe she’s thinking of the humans still out there, waiting for her return. I stay silent for a moment, letting her absorb the view.

She turns to me. “Why show me this?”

I rest my hands on the balcony rail. “Perspective. Pyrthos is more than a fortress—it’s a thriving city with commerce, families, religious devotions. You tried to burn it down, but you never truly saw the people who live here, did you?”

Her lips curl. “Are you trying to humanize them for me?”

I huff a quiet laugh. “We’re not human, Lysandra. You forget that.”

She scowls, clearly unamused. “You know what I mean. You’re painting a sympathetic picture, as if I should feel guilty for resisting Dark Elf oppression.”

I glance at her sidelong. “Not guilt—understanding. You want to free your kind, but do you realize how deeply the structures of this city run? Even if you succeeded in some grand revolt, you’d leave chaos in your wake. Humans wouldn’t be the only ones who suffer.”