Page 14

She crosses her arms, glaring down at the street. “Spare me your pity. I’ve seen how you treat human laborers. I saw the bodies in the courtyard. Chaos already reigns.”

I don’t bother disputing that. Instead, I push off the rail and lead her back inside.

We wind through a series of corridors until we emerge in a wide atrium that branches out to the fortress’s central courtyard.

Guards stationed here bow at my approach, but their eyes narrow on Lysandra.

She notices, squaring her shoulders defiantly.

I guide her through an ornate archway that opens into the city’s main thoroughfare.

Towering statues of the Hunter—a tall, hooded figure with a bow—line the avenue.

Each statue’s face is hidden by a cowl, emphasizing the god’s predatory nature.

The crowds part as we pass, some onlookers gawking at the sight of a human walking so freely beside a Dark Elf prince.

Whispers ripple, prickling the back of my neck.

Lysandra stiffens, no doubt sensing the weight of their stares.

We come upon a bustling market district near the fortress gates.

Stalls of vibrant produce, mana-infused trinkets, and exotic fabrics fill the air with a kaleidoscope of smells and colors.

Dark Elves haggle, their voices melodic but edged in cunning.

Here and there, a human servant rushes by, arms laden with parcels.

One stumbles, nearly tripping in fear when her gaze meets Lysandra’s.

Then recognition sparks—she knows who Lysandra is.

A flash of hope or terror crosses her face.

Lysandra tenses, lips parted. She steps toward the woman instinctively, but I clasp a hand around her arm. Not harshly, but firmly enough to halt her. The onlookers are already murmuring, some with open hostility.

“You can’t just approach them,” I say under my breath. “Not yet.”

She glares at me. “She’s terrified. Why do you think that is?”

I let out a short sigh. “Because she knows if the council sees her interacting with you, she’ll face punishment for consorting with a rebel. I’m preventing that.”

Lysandra’s nostrils flare. She wrenches her arm free, but the moment passes—the woman scurries off into the crowd. The market resumes its hum, though a handful of soldiers eye us warily from across the square.

“Tell me,” Lysandra says, voice tight, “what grand purpose is this serving, dragging me around to watch my people cower?”

I gesture for her to follow as I continue walking.

“I want you to witness the breadth of this city’s workings.

You rebelled because you believed a single blow could topple it.

But Pyrthos is layered—an entire realm of commerce, devotion, and, yes, oppression.

” I pause at a smaller shrine to the Hunter, where offerings of bones and carved figurines lie scattered.

“This city’s lifeblood is the farmland, the gods, and the people’s fear.

Tear one away, and the others react violently. ”

She stares at the shrine, lips pressed thin. “So you’re telling me it’s impossible to break?”

“I’m telling you it requires finesse, not brute force. If you want real change, you need to play the game from within.”

She scoffs. “Which is exactly what you’re doing. Playing a game.”

I don’t deny it. Instead, I lead her through a short side street, flanked by tall, spiraling architecture.

Balconies overhead brim with fluttering banners.

Dark Elf children—few in number—peer down at us curiously, while a pair of batlaz (fox-like creatures trained as guard beasts) lounge near an entranceway.

They perk up, baring fangs, but remain tethered.

As we cross into a quieter square, Rhazien appears from a side alley, inclining his head. “My prince,” he greets. Then his eyes flick to Lysandra. “You’re showing her the city?”

“Yes,” I say. “She needs to see exactly what stands between her and that farmland. How every stone is carefully placed to maintain order.”

Lysandra bristles. “I’m not some wide-eyed child. I understand well enough how your city stands on the backs of slaves.”

Rhazien’s gaze shifts between us. He’s never been subtle about disliking humans. “Be that as it may, humans aren’t the only ones laboring. Many Dark Elves in the lower castes also toil under taxes and decrees.”

She tilts her head. “So even your own kind is oppressed. You must be proud, forging such a utopia.”

I feel the tension spike, so I interject. “Rhazien, I trust you’ve heard about the farmland situation?”

His shoulders stiffen. “Yes. More rebels in hiding. If you plan to intervene, we should do so soon.”

Lysandra’s eyes flash with interest. “What do you mean by ‘intervene’? You found my people?”

Rhazien gives her a cold look. “We know pockets of them remain. The council is considering how best to exterminate them.”

She rounds on me, heart pounding—I can almost hear it. “You said you’d protect them.”

I hold her gaze. “I said I’d do what I can, provided you play your part. You have knowledge of their safe houses, do you not?”

She pales, anger warring with desperation. “You want me to betray them? So you can round them up yourself?”

I let out a slow breath. “I want to ensure they don’t walk into a council ambush. If we move quickly, we can offer them refuge—under my terms—before the council initiates a purge. It’s that, or watch them die.”

She clenches her fists. “Your terms. Which means more chains.”

Rhazien shifts, impatience etched on his face. “The alternative is the council’s method—public executions.”

For a moment, Lysandra looks as though she might explode in fury. Then her shoulders sag. She turns away, staring at the intricate patterns on the ground—mosaics depicting the Hunter’s eternal pursuit of prey. The symbolism isn’t lost on me.

I step close, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “This is the game I spoke of. You don’t have to like it. But if we do nothing, your people will be lost.”

Her chest rises and falls in rapid breaths. Finally, she swallows, turning those stormy eyes on me. “I need time to think.”

I nod. “You have until nightfall. After that, I must present a proposal to the council. I can’t stall them longer.”

She glares, then gives a curt nod. “Fine.”

A tense silence follows. I take the lead, guiding us back toward the fortress gates.

The short walk is fraught, every step weighed down by the stares of passersby, the glances from guards, the faint murmurs that I’m escorting a human rebel around like a favored pet.

My blood simmers at their insolence, but I keep my expression composed.

As we near the fortress courtyard, Lysandra slows. She looks at me with a mix of anger and something more vulnerable. “Why are you so intent on using me to shape policy here? You claim to hate the council, but you’re still dancing to their tune.”

I stiffen, irritated by her perceptiveness. “I’m dancing to no one’s tune but my own. This city reveres the Hunter—a god who hunts from the shadows, always controlling the outcome of the chase. Let the council think they hold the upper hand; I’d rather strike from an unseen angle.”

She tilts her head. “So you’re comparing yourself to a god?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “Hardly. But I understand the necessity of patience and cunning better than most. Do you?”

She doesn’t answer, but her jaw tightens. I lead her through a side entrance back into the fortress, where the corridors hush any further conversation. Near the base of a spiral staircase, Rhazien peels away with a polite bow, leaving us alone in the flicker of wall torches.

Now we linger in a narrow hall that leads to my private wing—her new domain of captivity, ironically more comfortable than the rest of the fortress. She crosses her arms, gaze fixed on me. “That’s it, then? Show me the city, remind me how hopeless things are, then demand I betray my people to you?”

I arch a brow. “I’m not demanding you hand them over on a silver platter. I’m giving you a chance to save them from worse. But yes, you must either trust me or face the consequences.”

Her throat works as she swallows. I sense the turmoil roiling inside her—loyalty to her cause, revulsion for me, and a grim acceptance that my path might be the only one left. A pang of something too close to pity nudges me, but I push the thought away.

She steps closer, the shift of her body stirring the air. I catch a faint adrenaline-laced scent. “I hate how you keep cornering me.”

“Yet here you stand.”

Her chest lifts with a measured inhale. “Because I want them safe. Even if it means dealing with you.” The line of her mouth trembles for a heartbeat, then hardens.

I nod. “Then we have an understanding.”

She shakes her head. “That’s too strong a word.”

A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Fair enough.” Silence stretches between us, tension coiling like a taut bowstring. I can’t deny the spark that flickers in my veins whenever we clash. It’s dangerous, addictive—seeing her spirit flare despite everything.

A single step closes the distance between us. I can almost taste her anger on the air. “You realize,” she murmurs, voice low, “that if I ever find a chance to take you down, I will.”

My pulse spikes. I should threaten her in return, remind her of her vulnerable position. Yet the challenge in her eyes enflames me more than any compliance could. “You’re welcome to try.”

She exhales, a trembling sound that might be a laugh. Then she turns abruptly, striding away toward her chamber. I watch her go, the sway of her braid against her back, the tension in her posture. When she disappears behind a corner, I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

The cloying quiet that follows feels oppressive.

For a moment, I linger in the hall, running a hand over my jaw.

My carefully maintained distance is slipping each time I see that fierce glare, each time I hear her voice steeped in defiance and desperation.

It’s a precarious line—I need her focused on saving her people, on forging alliances that further my goals, not on feeding whatever sparks between us.

That spark burns in me too, an ember I can’t entirely quench.

With Lysandra so close, every conversation is laced with an undercurrent of possibility—of violence, betrayal, or something far more carnal.

I shake my head, forcing myself to return to the antechamber.

I have a meeting with Eiroren soon, and I must maintain composure. The game demands it.

On my way, I consider how the city’s devotion to the Hunter parallels my own approach.

The Hunter is revered for patience, for cunning pursuit rather than reckless aggression.

That’s the role I aim to fill: the unseen force orchestrating events so that, in the end, I emerge victorious.

Let the council bicker. Let Lysandra’s rebels cower.

Let Lysandra herself think she can fight me or despise me.

I’ll corral all these moving pieces until they form the perfect tapestry to end my exile once and for all.

But as I climb the stairs to my private rooms, a niggling thought persists: She is not just another piece on the board.

She’s something else. Something that could unravel me if I’m not careful.

Her will is as relentless as my own, and that entices me in ways I can’t afford to indulge.

Not when I teeter on the precipice of regaining everything.

I push the intrusive notion aside. If my fascination with her is indeed growing, I can weaponize it or bury it. She can remain a tool—powerful, yes, but still mine to control. Until I no longer need her, or until she ceases to amuse me.

With that cold resolution burning in my chest, I head toward the council wing.

The torches on the walls flare as I pass, a sign of the fortress’s living wards recognizing my rank and letting me move unhindered.

My plan is set in motion: woo the scattered rebels into my protective net, keep Lysandra entangled in my dealings, and ensure the council remains blind to my true intentions.

Yet a sliver of doubt wedges itself in my mind.

Am I truly as detached as I claim? Or is Lysandra’s unwavering defiance whittling away at the walls I’ve built?

I recall the raw challenge in her eyes mere moments ago, and a surge of restless heat floods my veins.

I can handle this, I tell myself. She is a means to an end—nothing more.

Still, my heart beats a touch faster than usual. Because deep down, I sense that the line between means and obsession grows thinner with every breath. The city may fear the Hunter, but in my private domain, I face a hunt of my own making—a captive whose spirit refuses to bow.

I vow to keep that dynamic firmly in my grasp, to amuse myself with her struggles without succumbing to any weaker sentiment.

Because if I allow my carefully crafted distance to collapse, if I let my fascination become something more…

then the precarious web I’ve spun might unravel under our shared weight. And I cannot afford that. Not now.

Steeling my resolve, I stride onward, the fortress corridors echoing with my footsteps.

The day is young, and I have many moves yet to make.

Above all, I relish the next test of wills that awaits me.

Lysandra may not realize it yet, but each step we take—together or apart—draws us further into a game neither of us can truly control.

And the primal thrill of that truth fuels me more than any vengeance or promise of power ever could.