Page 15

LYSANDRA

I stand by the window in my borrowed chamber, watching daylight stretch across the fortress grounds.

Already I miss the wide-open farmland I once considered my battleground—rough earth under my boots, a horizon that promised a taste of freedom.

In here, the air smells of incense, old stone, and a faint floral note that reminds me of Xelith’s presence.

Despite the soft bed and decent meals, I’m keenly aware that I’m still a captive.

This room, though lavish, is a gilded cage.

Every flicker of light along the runic walls reminds me there are wards on each door and every archway.

Even if I could slip past the guards who loiter outside, I wouldn’t make it twenty steps before the spells flared to life.

I glance at the table in the corner, where a half-eaten platter of fruit lies.

This morning, a servant delivered it under Xelith’s orders.

My stomach growls at the memory, but the taste of fresh sweetness makes me uneasy.

Indulgence should be the last thing on my mind, but the body rarely cares about lofty principles. Survival instincts wage war with pride.

In the end, I think bitterly, I ate it all anyway.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts my brooding.

Before I can respond, it opens. Xelith steps in, quiet as a midnight breeze.

He doesn’t bother pretending to ask permission—this is his domain, after all.

Seeing him now, in the bright swirl of daylight, rattles me more than I care to admit.

His obsidian skin gleams, the silver war sigils on his forearms nearly glowing with arcs of power, and his white-silver hair is tied in a loose tail that sets off the stark planes of his face.

I force myself to meet his gaze. “You could wait to be invited, you know.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk. “We both know this is my wing, Lysandra. You’re a… guest here.”

I bark a humorless laugh. “Guest? Keep telling yourself that.”

He moves closer, the trailing scent of something crisp—like night air over cold water—surrounding him. “And how does our guest find her accommodations?”

In the pit of my stomach, frustration flares. He knows exactly how it feels to be caged, yet he taunts me with these niceties. “I prefer to keep my complaints to myself, Your Highness. Lest you throw me back in the dungeons for sport.”

He arches a brow, ignoring my barb. “I have more interesting ways to pass time than tormenting you with a cell.”

My pulse stutters at the dark promise in his tone, and I hate that my body responds with a surge of heated awareness. I glance away, feigning disinterest. “So why are you here this time?”

He leans against the wall, arms crossing leisurely. “To see how you’re… acclimating.”

I want to retort that I’ll never be acclimated to captivity, but I swallow the sarcasm. Instead, I fold my arms, mirroring his stance. “I’m alive, fed, and bored. Shall we continue pretending it’s anything else?”

He studies me, silver eyes keen. “We can skip the pretense if you like. I didn’t expect you to be docile.”

My cheeks burn. “You’d be disappointed if I were.”

His smirk deepens. “Undeniably.” The air between us crackles, charged with that peculiar tension that’s grown over the past days. Each time we speak, it feels like a verbal swordfight—one that neither of us can resist.

“Tell me something, Lysandra.” He tips his head, hair sliding over one shoulder. “Have you thought about my offer?”

I stiffen. “Which one?”

“The one concerning your rebels. Either we intercept them and offer some measure of protection, or we let the council get there first.”

I force my voice to remain steady. “I told you—I need time.”

He nods, pushing off the wall. “Time is running short. The council meets tonight, and they’ll want proof I can handle you—along with your scattered friends. If I can’t provide a plan, they’ll push for an all-out purge.”

My jaw tightens. The thought of my people being rounded up and executed sets my heart racing with fury. But I can’t give him everything he wants, either. I am no traitor.

“Tricky, isn’t it?” he says softly, as though reading my inner turmoil. “You fight to keep their secrets, but every moment you hesitate means more casualties if the council intervenes.”

Bile rises in my throat. “Don’t pretend you care about casualties.”

He steps closer, stopping mere inches away. The heat of his body envelops me. “I don’t. Not in the sense you do. But I care about removing the council’s leverage. If saving your rebels from a bloodbath accomplishes that, I’m inclined to do it.”

My mind churns. I can’t just hand over the rebels’ positions—some of them might see me as a monster for cooperating with a Dark Elf. But if they die, that blood is also on my hands.

His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmurs. “I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head.”

I exhale, bristling at his proximity. “Would you step back?”

He doesn’t move. Instead, the corner of his mouth quirks. “Afraid of me?”

“Annoyed,” I snap, though that’s only half the truth. There’s an odd flutter beneath my ribs, a sensation I loathe to acknowledge.

Surprisingly, he eases away. “Fine. But we’ll speak again soon about your rebels. For now, I have a simpler request.”

“Great,” I mutter, turning toward the window to mask my roiling emotions. “What is it now?”

“Come with me. I have an… errand of sorts.”

I glance back at him. “An errand.”

He gives a cryptic shrug. “Think of it as a test of your composure. I’d like you to accompany me through part of the fortress—under my watchful eye, of course—and perhaps we’ll see how well you handle certain… unexpected situations.”

My skin prickles with suspicion. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you’ll remain here, bored and caged. And I’ll have no choice but to parade you in chains at the next council session to prove you’re still under my control.”

The threat ignites fresh anger. “You’re a bastard, you know.”

He dips his head in a mock bow. “I’ve been called worse. Shall we?”

Gritting my teeth, I grab a cloak from the wardrobe—one of the garments I found earlier. It’s a dark, unadorned piece of cloth, but better than walking around the fortress in just breeches and a tunic that mark me as human. I swirl it over my shoulders and tie it tight.

He gestures to the door, stepping aside for me to lead.

The moment I pass him, I feel a flicker of tension across my back, as if his gaze lingers far too long.

I pretend not to notice. We move into the hallway, my boots clicking softly on the polished floor.

Two guards posted near the antechamber start to follow, but Xelith lifts a hand.

“Stay here,” he orders. “I’ll escort her personally.”

The guards exchange uncertain glances but obey, stepping aside with murmured acknowledgments. My pulse thrums. Being alone with him in these corridors is almost more unsettling than having an audience.

We descend a spiral staircase that leads into a wide hall.

Ornate tapestries depicting hunts and conquests line the walls, each with the familiar imagery of the Hunter—that hooded deity who thrives on cunning and pursuit.

As we pass, I feel an odd tug inside me, like a whisper of warning.

This entire fortress is a stage for cruelty, I remind myself.

At the corridor’s end, a large metal gate stands open. Beyond it, I glimpse a sprawling courtyard filled with motion. Soldiers sparring, lesser courtiers crossing from one wing to another, and at the far side, an enclosed garden shimmering with arcs of mana.

Xelith steers me toward the garden. Mana-lamps cast swirling patterns across the greenery—a variety of exotic flora that glows faintly in dim light, even though it’s midday.

Tall hedges form winding paths, each twist and turn revealing a new arrangement of strange blossoms. The air is thick with the scent of sweet pollen and something electric—residual magic, I suspect.

He stops at an archway draped in vines. “Wait here,” he says, scanning the area.

I frown. “Why?”

Before he can answer, a scrawny young Dark Elf—hardly more than a boy—comes racing down the garden path, arms full of scrolls. He skids to a halt upon spotting Xelith, fumbling as he bows. “M-my prince,” he stammers.

Xelith’s expression chills. “You’re late.”

“My apologies,” the youth says, panting. “It’s the new rosters. You requested them from the K’sheng keepers for farmland shipments?”

I watch, curiosity piqued. Rosters for farmland shipments. Possibly records of how many humans are assigned to each field. That could prove valuable if I want to locate pockets of rebels. I step closer, but Xelith flicks a warning glance at me, as though telling me not to pry.

He takes the scrolls, flipping through them. The boy trembles under his scrutiny.

“Did you ensure every name is accounted for?” Xelith demands.

The boy nods rapidly. “Yes, my prince. I cross-checked with the merchant guild’s logs.”

Xelith grunts, rolling the scrolls. “Good.” Then, in a softer tone, “Now, get out of here.”

The boy bows so low I fear he’ll topple, then darts away, nearly colliding with a manicured hedge.

I arch a brow at Xelith once we’re alone again. “Farmland shipments?”

“Supplies, resources, everything that ensures Pyrthos runs smoothly,” he says, tucking the scrolls into a leather satchel at his belt. “Don’t worry. I’ll share if it becomes relevant.”

I snort. “So magnanimous. Did you bring me here just to watch you discipline your scribe?”

A faint smirk. “Not entirely. Walk with me.”

We continue down the winding path, the hush of the garden enveloping us.

Magic-infused flowers shimmer in vibrant blues and purples, their stems occasionally pulsing as though alive.

A flicker of motion at the corner of my vision startles me—a tendril of vine shifting when I’m not looking. I blink, but it’s still again.