Page 27

LYSANDRA

I stare at the ceiling of Xelith’s private bedchamber, the lamplight casting faint, shifting shapes across the polished stone.

My body still hums with the aftershocks of last night’s collision—both the physical surrender and the emotional chaos that followed.

He sleeps on the makeshift bedding across the room, his form half in shadow, cloak tossed aside.

If I close my eyes, I can still feel the ghost of his touch, a reminder of how easily we lost ourselves in the tempest of need.

Guilt and confusion war inside me. I’ve betrayed everything I stood for, letting desire override my hatred.

That single moment of passion changes nothing, I remind myself, echoing the words we spoke.

And yet, I’m not sure I believe it. My chest tightens each time I recall the desperate way he looked at me, or the ferocity in our embrace.

Enough. I clench my jaw, forcing my thoughts to the present.

Dawn’s pale glow seeps through a high window, signaling the day that will decide so many fates.

The farmland enclaves, my life, Xelith’s tenuous hold on power…

it all converges at the council meeting.

We have a plan—present enough “progress” to satisfy their bloodlust, hopefully sparing my people from a purge. But do I trust him to follow through?

I exhale shakily, recalling how easily Dark Elves twist alliances. Xelith is cunning, exiled or not. He swears to protect me, but I’ve seen how desperation can make even the strongest yield. If handing me over would secure his power… would he do it?

A bitter note churns in my gut. Last night’s intimacy might be no more than another chess move.

I roll off the bed, feet touching the cool floor.

Goosebumps rise on my bare arms, but I ignore them.

My garments lie draped on a nearby chair, so I tug on my breeches and tunic, cinching the belt with hurried fingers.

I cast a glance at Xelith—still asleep, or pretending to be. His hair spills across the pillow in a pale curtain, war sigils catching stray light. My heart clenches. It shouldn’t be so easy to admire him. I swallow, shoving that traitorous thought aside.

I move silently to the door, pressing a palm against the ward.

The runes flicker, recognizing my presence, and I recall Xelith’s promise that the wards only open to those he designates.

It hesitates a fraction of a heartbeat, then yields with a faint hiss.

Relief mingles with dread; he must have included my signature.

I slip into the corridor. Two guards stand watch, blinking in surprise at my sudden appearance. My mind races. If they truly intend to keep me safe, they might not let me wander. But I can’t remain caged.

One guard steps forward, posture stiff. “My lady, can we assist you?”

I cringe at the false courtesy. “I need air,” I say curtly, keeping my chin high. “Xelith told me I’m free to walk about, so long as I remain within the warded halls. Are you going to stop me?”

He exchanges a wary look with his partner. “We… of course not. Just keep within the fortress interior. The prince’s orders are for your protection.”

I nod, forcing a faint sneer. “I’ll be quick.”

They stand aside, letting me pass. Fools. They suspect no immediate betrayal. Guilt stings, but I push forward. I have to confirm for myself whether Xelith is truly on my side or just leading me to the slaughter.

I move through a series of hallways, following the route we once took to the fortress library.

My pulse hammers. If I can slip out of the warded zones, maybe I can find a vantage that overlooks the farmland or locate a messenger route to contact any rebel allies who might be hiding near the city.

I need to warn them or ensure they’re prepared to flee if Xelith’s plan is another trap.

At a junction, I pause, glancing around. Torches line the walls, but no guards linger here. The hush feels thick, ominous. I recall Xelith’s attempts to intensify patrols. Where are they? My instincts prickle.

I move faster, ducking into a side corridor that angles downward. The walls shift from polished stone to rougher masonry—an older section of the fortress. I cling to the memory of these passages from the day I tried to scout potential escape routes.

Soon, the corridor opens into a dim archway.

A half-broken door stands ajar, revealing a small courtyard rarely used.

Daylight streams in, its brightness stark against the gloom.

I slip through, my heart pounding with a reckless mix of fear and determination.

The courtyard is empty—cracked stones, a few withered vines.

If I can scale the outer wall or find a concealed vantage, maybe I can drop a message to the farmland outskirts. My breath catches. So many times I told Xelith I would remain cooperative, but trust is a fragile thing.

I begin searching the perimeter, scanning for an exit or an old ladder.

Rusted metal bars cling to one wall, remnants of some ancient scaffolding.

I test them—loose, but maybe enough to climb a short distance.

My hand trembles, adrenaline surging. I should do this quickly, before the guards realize I’m gone.

I set one foot on a bar, then the other. The metal groans, but holds for now. My shoulders protest from old bruises. Gritting my teeth, I haul myself up, scanning for a window or ledge that might open onto a lower roof. Almost there.

A sudden clang echoes behind me. I freeze, heart leaping into my throat.

Someone’s footsteps. Instinct pushes me to climb faster.

But the bar cracks under my foot, and I yelp, nearly falling.

Strong hands wrap around my ankles, yanking me down.

I hit the ground in a bruising impact, biting back a cry.

“Stop!” a voice snarls. I twist, expecting a fortress guard. Instead, I find a hooded figure in fine clothing, face partially obscured by a scarf. My blood runs cold. An assassin? A noble?

He pins me with surprising strength, shoving me against the cracked courtyard wall. I struggle, breath ragged. Our eyes lock: he’s definitely Dark Elf, indigo eyes blazing with hostility. A faint sneer curves his lips.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he hisses, grip unyielding.

I thrash, nails scraping his arm. “Get off?—”

His laughter is cruel. “Xelith can’t watch you every moment, can he? The council grows impatient, dear Lysandra.”

Terror spikes. This must be the assassin or agent of those nobles who want me dead. My heartbeat pounds in my ears, but I try to gather my wits. Sirenblood. Could I enthrall him? But my voice is shaky, and panic closes my throat.

A swirl of footsteps approaches. More figures rush into the courtyard, three or four. I can’t fight them all. My mind whirls. I open my mouth to attempt a forced enthrallment, but a blade slashes near my throat, silent warning.

“Don’t speak,” one of them growls. “We know about your rumored illusions.”

Fear stabs deeper. They know. My voice could be my weapon, but they’re prepared to silence me.

The first man who pinned me tears a strip of cloth from his cloak, forcing it against my mouth, muffling any potential enthrallment.

I thrash wildly, but they yank my arms behind me with brutal efficiency.

“We’ll deliver her ourselves,” someone mutters. “The council can claim the credit, or we can present her to them for a reward.”

I struggle to breathe around the gag, mind screaming. Xelith… we parted on tense terms, but he has no idea I left the warded halls.

They drag me across the courtyard, heading for a half-collapsed gate. My eyes dart around, searching for any opening. If I let them haul me outside the fortress, I might never see daylight again. No, I have to fight.

I jerk my torso, forcing a stumble that sends me crashing into one of the men. He curses, losing his grip momentarily. I manage to yank an arm free, hurling an elbow into his ribs. He snarls, blade flashing.

Before he can slash me, the gate behind us explodes with motion. A swirl of black cloak, silver hair—Xelith. He moves like a storm, daggers drawn. I freeze, relief warring with shock. How did he find me so fast?

His face is a mask of rage, war sigils gleaming under the morning light.

The men turn to face him, brandishing weapons, but Xelith is faster.

A slash of steel, a spray of blood. One goes down with a strangled cry.

The man restraining me tries to pivot, hauling me as a shield, but Xelith meets him with lethal grace.

Their blades clash in a burst of sparks.

I stumble free, wincing at the raw burn around my wrists. Another attacker tries to seize me, but Xelith knocks him aside. The courtyard erupts in a frenzy of steel and curses. This is a full-blown fight.

Breath ragged, I tear the gag from my mouth.

For a second, I consider enthralling them, but Xelith’s a blur of lethal motion.

He doesn’t need illusions; he’s every inch the warrior prince.

The men fall back, outnumbered by the sudden arrival of fortress guards who flood in behind Xelith.

A ring of drawn weapons surrounds the would-be assassins.

Swords clang one more time. Then two assassins drop to their knees, surrendering. The third lies motionless. The fourth, pinned by a soldier, spits curses.

I sag against the wall, adrenaline crashing, every muscle trembling. Xelith spins, searching the courtyard. When his gaze lands on me, his expression twists with fury—and something akin to betrayal.

“What were you thinking?” he demands, voice raw. He strides over, grabbing my shoulders. “Why the hells did you leave the warded corridors?”

My eyes burn with unshed tears. “I—I needed to see if I could contact someone, gather my own intel. I didn’t trust…”