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“Yes, my prince.” The soldier drops the chain and backs away, footsteps echoing. The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Xelith.

I straighten, my wrists still bound, chains dangling between them. My heart drums in my chest, but I mask my expression schooled into cold composure. Prince or not, I refuse to show him weakness. If he expects tears or groveling, he’ll be sorely disappointed.

He moves with a predator’s grace, circling the table until he stands directly across from me.

A flick of his eyes takes in the bruises on my forearms, the tear in my stained leather pants, the dried blood matting my raven-black hair.

I clench my fists, resisting the urge to hide my injuries from his scrutiny.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair nearest me.

I lift my chin. “I’ll stand.”

One silver brow arcs. “As you wish.” He sets a hand on the back of the other chair, regarding me in a silence that grows more tense by the second.

At last, he speaks. “Word of your rebellion reached me weeks ago. Raids on storehouses, sabotage of farmland wards, incitement of slave uprisings. All led by a human with a gift for uniting the desperate.”

My throat tightens, but I keep my face impassive. “Is that a compliment?”

“I suppose it could be.” He taps his fingers on the chair, a slow, thoughtful rhythm. “Your forces spilled a lot of Dark Elf blood, Lysandra. The council is howling for your execution. Yet here you stand, very much alive.”

I snort. “I figure that’s a temporary condition.” Even so, I can’t fully mask the flicker of hope inside me. If he meant to kill me outright, he wouldn’t bother with conversation.

He studies me for a heartbeat longer, then exhales a soft laugh—quiet but laced with something ominous. “Not necessarily. I have… interests that could benefit from your continued existence.”

My shoulders go rigid. “If you think I’ll betray my people, you’re wasting your time.”

He steps around the table, coming closer.

My instincts scream to back away, but I hold my ground.

I can’t show him I’m intimidated, no matter how imposing his presence might be.

He’s a head taller than me, lithe but radiating coiled strength.

The silver markings on his forearms catch the torchlight, shimmering like serpents.

His gaze slides across my face, lingering on the bruise near my left cheek. “I’m not asking for betrayal. I’m offering an alternative to a public execution. Cooperation—under certain conditions.”

The chain linking my wrists jangles as I curl my hands into fists. “You can’t seriously believe I’d cooperate with you. Dark Elves have done nothing but enslave and torture humans for centuries.”

His expression remains dispassionate. “And yet, here we are, speaking calmly rather than tearing each other apart. That’s progress, isn’t it?”

I bite down on the inside of my lip. This man is toying with me. I sense it in the casual arrogance of his words, the tilt of his head. But there’s also a strange undercurrent—like he’s truly measuring my worth, testing how far I’ll go. “What do you want?” I demand, voice low.

He brushes a white strand of hair off his shoulder. “For now, I want to know exactly how you rallied so many humans under your banner. Resources, alliances, hidden caches—where did you find the manpower and the nerve to march on Pyrthos?”

A hollow laugh escapes me. “You think I’ll just hand over my secrets? If you’re trying to appear less like a tyrant, you’re failing.”

He huffs a quiet sound, close to amusement. “Very well. Let’s approach this differently. I suspect your rebellion isn’t entirely crushed. Your people won’t stop just because you’re gone, will they?”

My pulse quickens. He might be fishing for names, strategies, anything he can exploit to root out the remaining rebels. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

“Hmm.” He seems unperturbed. “Your defiance is admirable. But defiance alone won’t keep you alive.”

I want to hurl the table at him, rattle these chains like a rabid beast, anything to end this hateful dance.

But logic keeps me still. The fresh bruise on my ribs reminds me I’m in no condition for another fight.

And for all my bravado, the sight of my dead comrades in the courtyard still haunts me.

“Do you plan to torture me for the information?” I force the question out, refusing to let fear show.

He cocks his head, that silver hair glinting. “Torture is messy and often unreliable. I prefer more nuanced methods. But I won’t pretend to be merciful, Lysandra. You’re valuable only as long as you can provide me with something useful.”

I seethe at his frankness. “And if I refuse to talk? You throw me to the council?”

For a moment, he’s silent. Then he moves closer, so close I catch the faint scent of something cool and sharp, like a midnight breeze off deep water. My heart thuds against my ribs, but I don’t back down.

His voice drops, the tone almost intimate. “Perhaps I keep you for myself. There are many ways a rebel leader could prove entertaining.”

Revulsion and an unexpected flicker of heat coil in my gut. I slam my shoulder forward, ignoring the pain. “Entertaining? You sick bastard.”

He sidesteps just enough to avoid the brunt of my lunge, then snatches the chain between my wrists. The metal digs into my skin, forcing me still. We lock eyes—his glimmer with a predatory light, and I feel the tension rising between us, more savage and immediate than I expected.

“You hate us that much,” he murmurs, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

“More than you can imagine,” I hiss, twisting in his grip. But no matter how I jerk, the chain remains firm in his hand.

He regards me, unblinking. “I’m offering you a chance, Lysandra. While the rest of your rebels die in the dungeons, you might secure at least a semblance of freedom—or bargain for their lives—if you play this right.”

My vision wavers with anger. That’s how he aims to break me—dangling the fate of my people in front of me like bait.

I want to scream at him, tear him apart.

But the weight of the day’s battle crushes me, and reality seeps in.

As long as I’m alive, I can still think, still maneuver.

If I die, who will fight for the survivors?

“You want me to cooperate,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “What does that entail? Me feeding you every last detail of my rebellion so you can finish wiping us out?”

His lips twitch, as if suppressing a wry smile. “Not necessarily. I have little love for the ruling council. I’m an exile for a reason.”

I narrow my eyes. “You think that makes you sympathetic? Save it.”

He doesn’t release the chain, and the closeness is suffocating. I can’t keep him at a safe distance without yanking uselessly on my bindings. Finally, he exhales and lets the chain slip from his fingers, stepping away.

“You’re exhausted,” he says, his voice softening. “The guards told me about your injuries. There’s a washbasin in the adjoining room. Use it. I’ll have a meal brought in.”

I stare at him, heart pounding. Is he truly offering me comfort? My suspicion deepens, but I can’t deny that I’m hungry, parched, and need tending to my wounds.

“This is some trick,” I mutter.

He shrugs, crossing his arms again. “Call it a small kindness—or a strategic move. Either way, refusing it won’t help your cause.” His gaze skims over my battered form. “You’ve proven your spirit. Now prove your intelligence. Restore your strength, and maybe we’ll find common ground.”

I hate that a small part of me sees the logic in his words. If I’m going to help any surviving rebels, I need to stay alive, remain sharp. So I swallow my pride for the moment. “Fine.”

“Good.” He moves toward the door, pausing to glance back at me. “We’ll speak again soon, Lysandra Riven. Think carefully about where your loyalties—and your survival—truly lie.”

With that, he slips out, shutting the door behind him. I listen for a lock, a bolt, any sign that I’m sealed in. But the silence remains, broken only by the distant hum of fortress activity. Testing the handle, I find it locked from outside. Of course.

The chain around my wrists feels heavier somehow, even though he’s no longer holding it. My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale, and I sag against the table. My ribs scream in protest. I press a hand gingerly to my side, wincing at the sticky feel of half-dried blood.

I’m alone now, but I can’t relax. My mind spins with everything that just happened.

The aftermath of the battle, the courtyard strewn with corpses, the terrifying possibility that the rest of my people are either dead or in chains.

And then there’s Prince Xelith—calm, assured, exiled but still powerful.

He claims he has no love for the council, but he’s still a Dark Elf. He still stands for everything I hate.

A small, treacherous voice in my mind whispers that he could be the key to saving whoever remains. If there’s a wedge between him and the other dark elves, maybe I can exploit it. It’s risky. He’s clearly not one to be manipulated easily. But I have few options left.

I slump into one of the chairs, the chain clanking.

My stomach knots with hunger, but weariness outstrips it.

I press my face in my hands—careful to avoid pressing on the bruises— and let out a shaking breath.

My body feels like it’s teetering on a knife’s edge, any movement threatening to tip me into oblivion.

After a moment, I force myself upright and shuffle to the adjoining door.

It leads into a small washroom with a tarnished brass basin and a pitcher of water.

A narrow slit of a window near the ceiling provides enough light to reveal the grime on my face and arms. My reflection in the water shows a pale, angular face smudged with dirt, storm-gray eyes shadowed by exhaustion, and a mouth set in a grim line.

My hair, usually a sleek raven black, hangs in tangled knots.

I pour water into the basin and dip my fingers in.

The chill jolts me, but I bite back a gasp, letting the sensation ground me.

Cleaning myself is difficult with the chain restricting my wrists, but I manage to splash the worst of the dirt and blood away.

The motion sends twinges of pain through my shoulder and side, but it’s better than allowing my wounds to fester.

I dab at a gash on my forearm, wincing when the scab peels.

No bandages, no salve—just water. Typical.

A clank from the main room makes me freeze.

I whirl around, heart hammering, but no one’s there.

Possibly a guard delivering the promised meal, though they haven’t called me out.

Cautious, I inch back into the main chamber.

On the table sits a wooden tray laden with a bowl of watery stew and a hunk of bread that looks marginally fresh. A single cup of water rests beside it.

No guard in sight. Whoever delivered this managed to vanish in the span of a few heartbeats.

I glance at the door—still locked. The fortress likely has no shortage of cunning ways to slip in and out undetected.

The presence of the meal intensifies the emptiness gnawing at my belly.

My instincts scream it could be poisoned, but would Xelith bother?

If he wanted me dead, a single nod would suffice.

Cautiously, I sniff the stew. Smells bland, but not off.

My stomach snarls. With a resigned sigh, I sink into the chair and set to devouring it.

Every swallow soothes the rawness in my throat.

The bread scrapes like sandpaper against my battered mouth, but I force it down, ignoring the throbbing in my cheek.

As I eat, I replay the conversation with Xelith in my head.

My hatred for the Dark Elves stands, but something about him sets my nerves on edge in ways beyond mere revulsion.

He doesn’t posture like typical nobility.

He wields quiet authority, an air of detachment that’s almost more terrifying than outright cruelty.

I can’t help wondering what it means—this exile he supposedly endures, this tension with the council. If it’s real, I might exploit it.

Or perhaps he’ll exploit me first.

I gulp the last of the water, wincing at the dryness in my throat.

The tray now empty, I push it aside and slump back in the chair.

My body begs for rest, but my mind refuses to settle.

This fortress is a labyrinth of secrets, and I’m trapped at its heart.

I need to find a way out—or a way to secure the freedom of my remaining allies.

Time drags. The flickering torch on the wall casts dancing shadows.

My eyelids grow heavy despite my adrenaline.

The events of the day crash over me all at once: the hours of fighting, the betrayal that led us to be ambushed, the chaotic retreat, and finally the humiliating capture.

A tidal wave of weariness lulls me, but I fight it as best I can.

I shouldn’t sleep. I need to plan. I need…

But my body has its limits. Slowly, I feel the tension slipping from my muscles, replaced by an all-encompassing exhaustion. Maybe a brief rest—just to gather my strength. I shift in the chair, wrists still bound, chain drooping off the side. My head throbs, and I close my eyes with a shaky exhale.

Memories flash: the farmland at dawn, golden fields where families once toiled under the lash; the moment I raised the rebel banner, hearts alight with hope; the sickening realization that we were surrounded; the clash of blades, screams, smoke…

I drift, half-lost in the swirl of images. Through the haze, one thought remains clear: I am not done fighting. Not until every last chain in this cursed city is broken—including my own.

Eventually, I succumb to a fitful doze, posture slumped, arms stiff. The fortress hums around me like a living beast, waiting, watching. And in that uneasy darkness, my anger burns like a coal, refusing to die.