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He shakes his head. “Not leverage. Consider it an… exchange of possible benefits. I can’t stand the council’s tyranny.

You can’t stand seeing humans oppressed.

Perhaps we can find solutions within these records to restructure farmland assignments—or manipulate supply lines to provide safe hiding spots. ”

My heart lurches. If that’s true, it’s a lifeline for the rebels. But can I trust him not to twist any plan we devise?

“All right,” I say slowly, stepping forward to glance at the table.

Maps of farmland zones sprawl across the surface, dotted with small runic notations.

Some correspond to wards, others to resource distribution.

I spot a column listing worker quotas—numbers that represent living, breathing people.

My stomach churns at how easily they’re reduced to figures.

Xelith hovers near, silent as I scan the documents.

I catch glimpses of coded references—maybe routes for shipping taura meat, or supply caravans traveling at specific intervals.

If these caravans are lightly guarded, the rebels could intercept them for resources. But do I dare risk another skirmish?

My eyes flick to a side ledger detailing farmland expansions. Some areas mention “unsanctioned infiltration.” Likely that’s referencing my rebels. A pang of grief spears my chest. We used to be so careful, yet we were outmaneuvered.

I swallow hard. “So you’re giving me a chance to help shape the council’s approach?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Xelith confirms, crossing his arms. “If we can quietly ‘rehabilitate’ or reroute certain rebellious cells, the council won’t see cause for a mass cull. You might salvage some of your people.”

I can’t deny the grim relief that floods me. Some is better than none. But a coil of distrust remains. “And in return, you get what you want—credibility, maybe even an end to your exile.”

He offers a tight nod. “Yes.”

We regard each other across the table, tension thick. My mind whirls with the possibilities. If I can direct him to the rebels most in need, if I can ensure no one else is betrayed… maybe we can bide time to gather strength.

The hush in the room crackles with unspoken uncertainty. The notion of working with him makes my skin crawl, yet desperation demands I consider it.

After a moment, he exhales. “That’s enough for now. The day grows long, and you look ready to collapse under the weight of your moral quandary.”

I bristle at his condescending tone. “Don’t speak like you know me.”

His eyes flick over me, unreadable. “I learn more about you every day. You’d be wise to learn about me as well, if you hope to survive.”

I set my jaw. “Believe me, I’m paying attention.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile—dangerous and strangely enticing. “I trust you are.” He gestures toward the door. “Shall I escort you back to your room?”

A spark of rebellion flares within me, but I can’t exactly roam the fortress alone. This is the trap. My entire life is pinned under his watchful presence.

“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth. “Lead on, Prince.”

We exit the archive, and the wards shimmer into place behind us. The halls are quieter now—less foot traffic, more flickering torches that cast elongated shadows. Each step echoes, reminding me how easily the fortress could swallow me if I stray.

A figure rounds the corner ahead, nearly colliding with us. It’s Eiroren, robed in a deep blue fabric shot with silver threads. She inclines her head at Xelith, but her gaze slides over me with thinly veiled contempt.

“My prince,” she says in a silky voice. “I was just looking for you. The council inquired about your progress with our… rebellious guest.” Her eyes flick to me again, and I sense her satisfaction at the mild flush in my cheeks.

Xelith’s expression remains cool. “You can tell them I’m handling it. They’ll see the results soon enough.”

Eiroren’s lips curve. “I’ll do just that.” Then she lowers her voice, leaning slightly toward him. “Shall I inform Lady Alyssium about your absence at tomorrow’s feast? Or do you intend to attend with your new… companion?”

My heart stumbles. A feast?

Xelith’s jaw tightens. “Tomorrow’s feast is the least of my concerns right now.”

Eiroren arches a brow, as though filing away that response. Then she steps aside, clearing our path. “As you say. Good day, Prince Xelith. Lysandra.”

She sweeps off, leaving behind the faintest scent of exotic incense.

The air crackles with tension. I shoot Xelith a sidelong look. “A feast, hmm? Another grand display of Dark Elf decadence while humans starve in the farmland?”

He gives me a measured look. “It’s a political function. Hardly relevant to your immediate predicament.”

Anger simmers under my skin. “Everything you do is relevant to me. My life depends on your every move.”

A flicker of regret crosses his features—so brief I almost miss it. “I never claimed this arrangement was fair.”

Silence drapes between us, thick as the fortress walls. We continue down the corridor, arriving at the door to my chamber. For a moment, we both stand there, neither moving.

“Stay in your room for tonight. I’ll notify you if anything changes with the farmland or the council’s timeline.”

My lips press into a thin line. “And if I want to wander?”

His gaze hardens. “Then you’ll find yourself confronted by wards and suspicious guards. You might enthrall one or two—if that’s indeed what’s happening—but not all. The fortress will crush you.”

My stomach tightens at his blunt warning, especially the way he hints again at my potential enthrallment. He’s not letting that go, is he?

Without waiting for my reply, he steps forward, opening the door. I slip inside, bracing myself for some parting taunt. But he simply meets my gaze with an intensity that makes my heart skip.

“Rest,” he murmurs. “We’ll talk again soon.”

I swallow, nodding stiffly. Then the door closes between us, wards humming. I’m alone.

Exhaling shakily, I pace the chamber, mind a whirl of conflicting emotions.

I want to hate him wholeheartedly, to see him as the same kind of monster who destroyed my rebellion.

But he’s not quite that simple, is he? His offers, while self-serving, do hint at some twisted path to preserving human lives.

My gaze wander to the tall mirror across from the bed.

I approach it, half expecting my reflection to warp or shimmer.

But it’s just me: black hair in a loose braid, bruises shadowing my jaw, eyes edged with exhaustion.

Is there truly Siren blood in these veins?

The notion would’ve been laughable a week ago, but after everything I’ve witnessed…

A pang tightens my chest. If it’s true, my magic might be the only weapon I have in this fortress. But using it without understanding it is like juggling lit torches—dangerous and unpredictable. Should I try to harness it? Or keep it buried?

Laying a palm on the mirror’s surface, I let my eyes drift shut. A faint tingle flares in my core, as if responding to my anxious thoughts. The memory of that guard’s dazed expression floods me, followed by Xelith’s laser-like scrutiny.

Slowly, I open my eyes. My reflection stares back, calm on the surface, turmoil beneath. I might survive. I might even save some rebels. But at what cost to my soul?

Shoving those thoughts aside, I sink onto the bed.

My head throbs with the day’s barrage of new threats, new bargains.

The memory of Xelith’s proximity lingers, as does the vexing warmth that pools in my belly whenever he leans too close.

It’s just adrenaline, I tell myself. Just the confusion of captivity.

But no matter how many times I repeat it, a small voice whispers that my fascination is real, a lethal spark dancing between predator and prey. I mustn’t lose my head.

Curling onto my side, I stare at the flickering torches outside the window. My life has become a twisted dance with a dark prince who sees me as both tool and temptation. The lines blur, each step tangled in power and unspoken yearnings.

I vow to keep my secrets until I grasp enough leverage.

The illusions—if that’s what they are—remain half-formed, but they might be a key.

If I can refine them, I could slip out of this fortress or bend a guard to retrieve messages for me.

Carefully, Lysandra, I remind myself. One misstep, and you’re done.

Thoughts spin until weariness drags me under. I drift into a restless doze, haunted by half-dreams of swirling mana-lights, farmland in flames, and silver eyes studying me with predatory intent.

When I wake, the chamber is dim with evening shadows. My mouth is dry, my body stiff. Rising, I wander to the table and pick at the remnants of fruit. Still sweet. It calms the gnawing hunger.

A sense of watchfulness pervades the room, as though wards or eyes beyond these walls keep vigil. My skin prickles, remembering how Xelith said he’s not entirely alone in wanting me locked tight. Eiroren, Rhazien… gods know how many more.

I shuffle to the window and press my palms against the cool glass. Outside, Pyrthos’s spires glimmer under the setting sun, the city swathed in bruised-purple light. Somewhere out there, the farmland watchers close in on the rebels I once led. By tomorrow, a decision must be made.

An ache lodges in my chest as I recall the day’s events. The push-pull with Xelith intensifies each time we speak—like magnets we can’t align, forcibly repelling yet inescapably drawn. I wrap my arms around myself, shutting my eyes.

I won’t let my people die because of my pride. If that means forging a devil’s bargain with Xelith, so be it. But I’ll do it on my terms, illusions or no illusions.

In the hush of my chamber, I vow that no matter how fierce our verbal sparring or how unsettling the flickers of attraction, I’ll hold tight to the core of who I am.

If Xelith thinks to enthrall me as thoroughly as these wards entrap me, he’ll discover the cost of underestimating a woman who has nothing left to lose.

A shaky breath escapes me. The tension in my limbs refuses to subside, and my mind still buzzes with uncertain magic. So I remain by the window, letting night fall, waiting for the inevitable next step in this twisted dance.

Because the longer we exchange these heated glances, the deeper we wade into an undercurrent of danger, desire, and shifting power that might very well consume us both—and I’m not sure which of us will emerge triumphant… or if we’ll both burn.