Page 19

Turning on my heel, I head toward the corridor that leads back to my private wing.

I need to speak with Lysandra, gauge how much she knows about her own abilities.

The council’s breathing down my neck, and I have less than a tenday to produce some performance of control over her rebellion.

I can’t do that if she’s on the verge of unleashing powers that overshadow my cunning.

The fortress corridors flicker with torches as I stride, each station of armed soldiers saluting stiffly.

I pass by the chamber where scribes keep rosters of farmland labor, then climb the spiral staircase that leads to my domain.

Outside Lysandra’s door, two guards stand at attention. They bow as I approach.

“I’ll speak with her alone,” I say, touching the warded lock. The runes spark, recognizing me, and the door groans open.

Inside, Lysandra stands near a table, arms crossed. She’s wearing a simple, dark tunic and breeches, her hair braided back. A faint bruise still lingers on her jaw, but it’s fading. Her storm-gray eyes flick to me, and that stubborn defiance flares as always.

“Busy morning?” she says, voice edged with sarcasm. “You look as though you’ve wrestled a serpent.”

I close the door behind me, leaning against it. “The council. They’re eager for your head.”

She lifts her chin. “Yes, I figured as much. So, what’s your plan? March me onto a public stage so they can hurl rotten fruit at me?”

A humorless laugh escapes me. “They want more than fruit thrown. They want you broken or dead. I convinced them to wait a tenday, but they require results. Either you yield information about your scattered rebels, or they’ll intervene with a purge in the farmland.”

She pales. I see the flicker of fear overshadowed by outrage. “A purge. Because that’s simpler than addressing any real injustice, I suppose.”

My jaw tightens. “Don’t you see? This is exactly what I warned you about. The council is more interested in short-term brutality than long-term stability.”

Her eyes burn. “Then help me protect them. You’re the only one in this fortress who has the power to do so, right?”

I push off the door, crossing the room until I stand a pace away. The tension between us is immediate, an electric current that hums in the silence. “I can’t protect them if you hide everything, Lysandra.”

She scowls, though her posture wilts slightly. “If I hand over their locations, how do I know you won’t just capture them all and force them into labor? Or kill them quietly?”

I sweep through my locks, a spike of frustration mingling with something else—an odd desire to soothe her fears. “I won’t guarantee they’ll be free. But it’s better than a large-scale cull. Work with me, and we can orchestrate a solution that spares most of them. The alternative is a bloodbath.”

Her lips press tight, warring with the inevitability. Finally, she exhales. “I’ll consider it. But I need time to think—no, don’t start. I know time is short. Just… give me a day. Let me see if there’s a strategic way to direct you to the rebels who might be open to negotiation.”

I nod, relieved she’s at least not dismissing the option outright. “Fine. But there’s another matter we must address.”

Her brow furrows. “Which is?”

I hesitate, scrutinizing her. “Your… illusions. The odd lapses you cause in guards, the flickers of magic around you. People have noticed. The council is hearing whispers.”

Her eyes widen momentarily, then narrow in defiance. “They’re just rumors.”

“Rumors that could kill you. If the council suspects you’re anything more than a mundane rebel, they’ll end this charade instantly.”

She swallows, gaze flicking to the side. “I don’t know what’s happening. Sometimes I get these… surges of heat, or a dizzy feeling. Then people look at me strangely.”

I recall the guard in the garden who glazed over at her half-formed words. My pulse quickens. “You must learn to control it—whatever it is. If you slip up in front of the wrong person, they’ll accuse you of forbidden magic.”

She huffs a bitter laugh. “As if your entire race doesn’t thrive on magic.”

“Dark Elf magic is sanctioned by the ancient pacts with the Thirteen. A human wielding it—especially something that might enthrall or subvert minds? That’s an abomination in their eyes.”

She flinches at the word abomination, then sets her jaw. “So how do I hide it? I can’t exactly request a tutor in arcane illusions.”

My mind races, sifting through possibilities. “For now, bury it. Resist the urge to lash out verbally when you’re angry. If you feel that surge, try to breathe through it. Think of nothing. Or better yet, think of something that calms you.”

She snorts. “Calms me? In this fortress? You must be joking.”

I spread my hands, exasperated. “We don’t have many options. You want to survive, you must suppress it. At least until we can figure out exactly what you’re dealing with.”

Silence falls, thick with tension. Outside the window, the sky darkens with storm clouds rolling in from the west. She watches me with a mix of suspicion and reluctant trust. How bizarre, that a rebel who once tried to burn Pyrthos now stands on the precipice of sharing her most dangerous secret with me.

“Fine,” she finally concedes. “I’ll do my best to rein it in. But if it surges without warning?”

My throat constricts. “Then pray it happens where no one else sees. Or at least that I’m there to cover for you.”

Her gaze drops, shoulders sagging. “Understood.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The hush accentuates the soft patter of rain beginning to drum against the fortress walls. In this small, private bubble, she looks more vulnerable than I’ve seen her before—eyes shadowed, brows drawn.

A surge of conflicted emotion rushes through me. She’s dangerous, yes. But also alone in a place that would kill her for existing. I step forward, pressing a hand lightly against her upper arm. Her breath catches, and I see the flick of fear and something else in her eyes.

“I’m not your enemy,” I murmur. “Not right now.”

She trembles beneath my touch, but she doesn’t pull away. “You’re still a Dark Elf prince playing a twisted game. That’s… something I can’t forget.”

“I don’t ask you to forget. Just to see that we both stand to gain from cooperation.” My voice drops, unbidden softness creeping in. “I won’t let them tear you apart. It wouldn’t be good politics.”

Her lips twist wryly. “So it’s all about politics?”

A breath hitches in my chest. “Yes,” I say, even though a small voice inside of me asks if that’s entirely true.

I linger a moment too long, feeling the heat of her skin through the fabric.

Then I withdraw my hand, adopting a neutral stance.

“Rest for now. We’ll reconvene in the morning.

By tomorrow evening, I need something tangible to appease the council. ”

She nods stiffly, a flicker of tension crossing her face. “I’ll… see what I can piece together without betraying everyone I care about.”

I incline my head. “A fine line to walk, indeed.”

Her expression flickers with a hint of grim humor. “I’ve been walking fine lines my whole life.”

Without another word, I turn to the door, pausing only to glance back at her.

She stands in the dim lamplight, cloak falling in subdued folds around her slender frame.

The flickering glow catches on her stormy eyes, and an unfamiliar pang resonates in my chest. Don’t get drawn in, I remind myself, forcibly shutting down the swirl of conflicting desire.

I exit the chamber, the wards rippling closed behind me.

The guards out front straighten at my appearance, though they say nothing.

Rain drums on the fortress’s high windows, an incessant patter that mirrors the rush of my turbulent thoughts.

I head toward my own quarters, mind sifting through all that must be done.

I have a tenday to present the council with progress. Lysandra has a day to decide how she’ll handle the farmland rebels. In the meantime, her powers loom like a lit fuse, threatening to detonate.

When I reach my private suite, I’m not surprised to find Rhazien waiting inside, arms folded. He lifts his gaze, tension etched into his stance. “So? The council’s demands?”

I toss my cloak onto a nearby chair. “They give me a tenday. Either produce results or they’ll intervene.”

Rhazien grimaces. “That’s not much time.”

“Plenty, if Lysandra cooperates. She’ll feed me a lead on the rebels soon.”

He arches a brow. “You sound confident.”

I force a dry laugh. “Confidence is the only currency we have right now.”

He steps forward, lowering his voice. “Word on the corridors says Eiroren caught wind of a rumor that Lysandra might?—”

“I know,” I cut in, rubbing my temple. “Her illusions. The enthrallment. The council’s sniffing around. If they confirm anything beyond typical human abilities, we’re finished.”

Rhazien exhales slowly. “Be careful, my prince.”

I shoot him a pointed look. “Always. But we need to accelerate plans. Have someone quietly spread the notion that Lysandra’s rebellious spirit is fading—that she’s cooperating more each day. That should quell immediate suspicions of hidden magic.”

He nods. “I’ll see it done.”

A pause hangs between us. Then he clears his throat. “And… your personal dealings with her? Are they in check?”

My gaze snaps to his. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, cautiously. “Just that some say your interest goes beyond politics. I’m only concerned about your focus. She’s a human, after all. And a rebel at that.”

I grind my teeth, a flush of anger creeping up. “My reasons are my own. So long as I achieve the goal—keeping the council at bay—my ‘personal dealings’ are irrelevant.”

He bows slightly, though his eyes still hold a trace of concern. “As you say. I’ll leave you to it.”