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With that, Rhazien departs, footsteps fading into the corridor. Alone now, I stand in the middle of my chamber, staring at the runic patterns on the walls. My thoughts swirl back to Lysandra’s face moments ago, how her defiance wavered, revealing a glimpse of genuine fear.

Don’t let sympathy blind you, I berate myself. She’s a tool, an ally of circumstance. But the memory of her closeness lingers, the brush of her arm under my palm—a fleeting reminder that beyond the political game, there’s a potent spark between us.

I pace to the window. Rain streaks the glass, smearing the view of Pyrthos’s labyrinthine streets below. Light glimmers on the drenched rooftops, and in the distance, the farmland is shrouded in gloom. A reflection of how precarious everything stands.

If Lysandra truly wields something akin to sirenblood, the entire fortress stands on a precipice. The council’s thirst for control will clash violently with any sign of forbidden power. War, or at least brutal purges, could follow in an instant.

Despite the logic that demands I remain emotionally distant, I can’t shake the memory of her tremulous voice saying she doesn’t know what’s happening to her.

For a heartbeat, I’d felt the urge to reassure her, to promise protection beyond political necessity.

That unsettles me more than the council’s threats.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating my reflection in the glass: obsidian skin, silver hair, war sigils that mark me as a noble exiled by his own people.

I have my own grudges. My own ambitions.

Lysandra is a piece on the board that might tip the entire game in my favor. Or destroy me if I lose control.

A thunderclap reverberates. I close my eyes, forcing my mind to settle. I must remain calm, cunning, unaffected. The counsel of the Hunter emphasizes patience, a predator waiting for the perfect moment. That’s me, or so I’ve always believed.

Yet now, a day doesn’t pass without her face intruding into my thoughts, her fiery retorts echoing through my mind. The tension strung between us thrums like a taut wire, half threat, half… something else.

Another rumble of thunder shakes the glass. The rainfall intensifies, and I watch sheets of it cascade down. The hour is late, but I can’t rest. The council’s demands weigh on me, Lysandra’s precarious magic hovers at the periphery, and a swirl of conflicting urges churn in my core.

At last, I tear myself from the window. My desk holds an array of documents—farm rosters, political treatises, half-burned letters detailing hidden alliances.

Mechanically, I sift through them, searching for any thread that might help me craft a believable plan to present at the next council meeting.

If I can detail a strategy to integrate the rebels or root them out covertly, the council might hold off on open slaughter.

But my concentration frays. Each line blurs, replaced by an image of Lysandra’s guarded expression, the slight tremor when I asked her about illusions. Why does it affect me so? I’ve threatened humans before, manipulated them, used them as pawns. None ever stirred more than mild disdain.

She’s different—a challenge as fierce as any rival sorcerer I’ve faced, yet she wears that vulnerability like a cloak. And the echoes of her possible sirenblood weave an intoxicating sense of forbidden allure. It’s madness.

A humorless laugh escapes me. If the council knew how thoroughly tangled I am in this, they’d see it as weakness. Perhaps they’d be right. My father always warned me never to let emotion outweigh strategy.

Eventually, exhaustion creeps in, forcing my eyes to droop. I drag a hand over my face, snuffing out the overhead lamps with a quiet incantation. Shadows descend, broken only by the sporadic flashes of lightning outside.

I slump onto a divan by the wall, letting my head rest against the carved wood.

The storm outside rages, and my mind remains a tempest of worry and reluctant longing.

I have a day to push Lysandra into giving me something to pacify the council.

A day to keep her illusions hidden. A day to maintain my own grip on the precarious throne of exiled power I still hold.

And, overshadowing it all, the possibility that Lysandra’s abilities are more than rumor. If she truly can enthrall minds, the council would brand her an existential threat to all Dark Elves.

The thunder echoes like a war drum. I close my eyes, trying to envision the path forward. Instead, I see her face again, the flicker of challenge in her gaze. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache.

Stay focused. The next step is ensuring she cooperates. The farmland rebels must be handled discreetly. Once that’s done… My thoughts fade into a swirling haze. The storm lulls me toward a fitful sleep.

In the dreamlike edges of my mind, I hear her voice—defiant yet laced with fear. See her lips forming half-spoken commands that ripple the air with subtle power. A cold sweat coats my skin. Even asleep, I can’t escape the pull she exerts on my psyche.

When I finally drift fully into slumber, it’s with a tangled sense of dread and fascination for the day ahead.

Because the moment we step outside the safe bubble of these wards, we gamble with the secrets that might upend Protheka’s fragile order.

And in that gamble, I’m risking far more than just my exile.

I’m risking the rigid control I’ve spent my life honing. And for what? A glimmer of the unknown—and a woman who might be the key to toppling the very power structure I’ve been plotting against for years.

Lightning flashes one last time, illuminating the chamber with stark brilliance before darkness enfolds me again. I exhale a shaky breath, bracing for the storm that’s no longer just outside these walls, but lurking deep within me.