Page 18

XELITH

I stand on the threshold of a long, gleaming corridor in the heart of Pyrthos Fortress, forcing my breathing to remain steady.

On either side of me, tall columns carved with serpentine motifs reflect flickering torchlight, making it appear as though the shadows slither across the walls.

Despite the grandeur, a coil of unease tightens in my gut.

The Dark Elf Council has summoned me—again.

Their message arrived at dawn: an ultimatum wrapped in formalities.

They want answers about Lysandra, and they’re done waiting.

My footfalls echo like a herald of bad news as I cross the polished floor.

Two guards stationed outside the council chambers stiffen when I approach.

They wear the insignia of King Throsh’s personal garrison: dark tabards embroidered with the emblem of the Hunter—a hooded figure with a drawn bow.

Their eyes track me warily, as if they suspect I might conjure shadows to slit their throats at any moment.

One guard gestures to the large, rune-bound doors. “The council awaits, Prince Xelith.” He speaks my title in a clipped tone, not quite insolent but also devoid of warmth.

I tilt my head, acknowledging them briefly before touching the door’s central sigil.

Mana flares, reading my signature, then the wards unlock with a hiss.

The door swings inward, revealing a semicircular hall draped in thick tapestries.

A ring of council members sits perched on elevated seats arranged around the perimeter.

Each seat bears the crest of its occupant’s ancestral line, from lesser houses to the more influential families that shape Dark Elf politics.

The tension in the air is palpable. Whispers die the instant I step into the circle. I feel their collective scrutiny like an oppressive weight pressing on my shoulders.

A slender figure at the middle of the arc stands, brushing off her elaborate robes.

Lady Sharavel—one of the more vocal councilors who opposed my return to Pyrthos.

Her eyes narrow. “Prince Xelith Vaeranthe,” she intones, voice carrying across the domed chamber.

“You grace us with your presence at last.”

I offer a short bow, keeping my expression neutral. “Councilors. I received your summons.”

She gestures for me to come forward, and I do so, stopping in the middle of the floor where a mosaic of the Thirteen pantheon sprawls in swirling lines of color. Torchlight overhead catches the black-lacquered arcs in the tile, making them glimmer like fresh ink.

Sharavel presses her lips into a thin line. “We’ve heard troubling whispers—your lenience regarding the human rebel. Perhaps you care to explain why she yet breathes.”

I meet her gaze evenly. “Lysandra Riven’s execution might serve the bloodlust of a few, but it would do little to prevent further unrest among the farmland laborers.

She’s more valuable alive, so I can glean information that might stabilize our production lines and quell the rebellion more permanently. ”

A low murmur sweeps through the council seats.

Some nod in reluctant agreement, others maintain scowls.

Lord Kalthos, a formidable figure with braided white hair, leans forward.

“That was your explanation a tenday ago, Prince Xelith,” he says, voice rough.

“You assured us you’d extract details of the rebellion swiftly.

Instead, we hear rumors that she’s treated…

comfortably. Roaming the fortress on your arm. Is that wise?”

“Comfort,” I echo, letting a hint of irony tinge my voice. “She remains under constant watch. I allow her short walks for morale and cooperation. A caged dog is more likely to bite, after all.”

A few councilors exchange intrigued glances. They understand the logic of controlling a prisoner with subtlety rather than outright brutality—some do it themselves behind closed doors. But Sharavel doesn’t look convinced.

She arches a brow. “And have you gleaned anything of substance from her, or is this indulgence of yours purely for show?”

Anger simmers in my chest. I clench my fists behind my back, determined not to let them see how her condescension grates on me. “It’s a process. Humans are stubborn, especially those who believe in a cause. If I broke her too quickly, we’d risk inciting her allies to even more desperate measures.”

Sharavel’s lips curl. “Your father, the late Lord Vaeranthe, would never have tolerated such excuses.”

A fresh wave of tension clamps around my ribs at the mention of my father.

I allow a small, dangerous smile to ghost my lips.

“My father ruled in different times, Lady Sharavel. The farmland is more vital than ever, especially with the new expansions. A rash execution could spark sabotage that sets us all back. Or have you forgotten the fiasco in the western fields?”

Her eyes flash with annoyance. The western fields fiasco—a bungled crackdown that resulted in burned crops—still weighs on the council’s pride.

Lord Kalthos clears his throat, drawing attention away from Sharavel’s glowering face. “Fine. We can tolerate your method… within reason. But we need progress, Vaeranthe. The council demands results, not endless delays.”

I nod slowly. “I’ve already uncovered leads about certain rebel enclaves. They’re scattered, desperate, and less likely to mount a major offensive. Given time, I can either incorporate them into the workforce or eliminate them quietly.”

A stout councilor named Draelan speaks up, drumming ring-laden fingers on the arm of his seat. “The farmland watchers are restless. They expect a show of strength. If you coddle this human any longer, they might question your loyalty.”

My jaw ticks at the insinuation. “Questioning my loyalty is a mistake they can ill afford. Let me be clear: I intend to secure these rebels. One way or another.”

A soft ripple of agreement moves through the semicircle.

Yet I sense their impatience, their thirst for swift, brutal solutions.

Fools, I think. They’d sooner slaughter every human than address the root cause of rebellion.

If they discover Lysandra might harbor actual magic—specifically something as fearsome as sirenblood—they’d demand her head on a pike immediately, no matter the consequences.

And that’s precisely what I must prevent.

Sharavel folds her arms. “Then we await your triumph, Prince Xelith, but not indefinitely. You have a tenday to produce tangible evidence of progress—or at least a public humiliation of this rebel. If you fail, we’ll step in ourselves.”

Her threat hangs in the air. Tension crackles along my spine, but I keep my tone even. “A tenday is sufficient. You’ll have your proof.”

With that, she dismisses me, clearly not wanting to prolong the discussion further.

I offer a curt bow, then turn on my heel.

My footsteps echo across the chamber, heartbeat thrumming as I pass back into the corridor.

The guard posted there glances at me, wide-eyed, but I stride past without a word.

Outside, the corridor empties into a courtyard bathed in pale midday light.

I inhale, trying to purge the memory of that council inquisition.

They’re losing patience. My “lenience” with Lysandra has them convinced I’m either enamored with her or incompetent.

Possibly both. But she’s no ordinary captive , that much I sense.

If she truly wields hidden power, handing her over would be a catastrophic mistake—for her, and for me.

The crisp air is a slight relief as I exit into one of the fortress’s open terraces. The vantage offers a view of Pyrthos’s cityscape: slender spires, labyrinthine streets, and the farmland in the distance. My mind churns.

A familiar presence sidles up behind me. Eiroren, her silver hair pulled into an intricate twist, stands poised with her arms folded. “I take it the council meeting was… pleasant?” Her tone drips with false sympathy.

I let out a low exhale. “They want Lysandra delivered soon. Alive, dead, or otherwise humiliated, they don’t care.”

Eiroren inclines her head. “And what do you want?”

“To keep them off my back until I can maneuver properly.” I glance sideways at her. “Do you doubt my strategy, Eiroren?”

She shakes her head, though her eyes remain guarded. “Not exactly. But rumors swirl that you’re entranced by your human toy.”

My lip curls. “Rumors are rarely accurate.”

Her mouth quirks, almost a smile. “Indeed. But rumors shape perception, and perception shapes policy.”

She isn’t wrong. If the council believes I’m enthralled by a mere human, they’ll see it as a sign of weakness. They have no idea how precarious my position truly is.

Eiroren drops her voice. “It’s said Lysandra might have… unnatural abilities. People talk about how some guards lose focus around her, how illusions seem to flicker in her wake.”

My spine stiffens. “Gossip can be dangerous, Eiroren. Encourage them to hush such talk.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You forget, I have no authority over rumors. And if even half are true, we must address the possibility. For your own sake.”

I grit my teeth. “Noted.”

She lingers a moment, studying me. Then with a slight bow, she retreats into the fortress halls, leaving me alone with my roiling thoughts.

If the whispers about Lysandra’s budding magic continue, the council will want to dissect her for every ounce of threat.

And if they discover sirenblood specifically…

I swallow hard. The history of sirenblood is horrific enough that the Dark Elves, in previous eras, waged campaigns to wipe them out.