Page 3

XELITH

I stand on the upper balcony of Pyrthos Fortress, watching the last of the daylight bleed across the horizon.

Beneath me, the courtyard is a mess of broken bodies and shattered hopes.

I can still smell the blood on the wind, sharp and metallic.

Dozens of human rebels were dragged through these gates earlier, their pitiful attempts at liberation crushed before they truly began.

My attention lingers on one rebel in particular—Lysandra Riven.

Even from a distance, I could sense her defiance.

I saw it in the way she refused to lower her head, the way her eyes burned with hatred as the guards forced her onto her knees.

She’s different from the usual rabble, the ones who shrink when confronted with our power.

I’ve encountered enough human rebels to know real spirit is rare.

So many fight out of desperation, fear, or basic survival.

Few possess the raw will that Lysandra radiates.

I press my palms against the carved stone railing and let my gaze rove over the courtyard.

Torches sputter to life along the fortress walls.

Soldiers stride past, boots crunching on gravelly stone.

They toss bodies into carts headed for the pyres.

A memory surfaces—an image of Lysandra’s furious glare when I saw her up close.

Such a potent blend of pride and recklessness.

If the Dark Elf council has its way, she won’t live to see another dawn.

But perhaps I have a say in that.

A quiet step behind me signals the arrival of someone I know well: Eiroren, a noble of lesser birth who’s made herself useful since I returned to Pyrthos. She halts a respectful distance away, her violet eyes flicking to the courtyard and then back to me.

“My prince,” she says, her tone as refined as ever. “Shall I arrange additional guards for the rebel leader? The council grows impatient.”

I turn and cross my arms over my chest. “The council is always impatient. If they had their way, Lysandra Riven would be headless by now, displayed on a pike in the city square.”

Eiroren lowers her gaze but not her chin, a subtle mark of caution. She’s fully aware I outrank her by birth, exile or not. “They believe it necessary to quell further uprisings.”

I consider that. “Perhaps. But I have other plans.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “The King’s men speak of your potential reinstatement if you comply with their demands. Bringing them Lysandra’s head is the quickest path to regaining your title, my prince.”

A faint edge creeps into my voice. “So they’d like me to betray what I stand for—again. Strange how they’re so eager to pretend my exile never happened.”

Eiroren doesn’t argue. She understands the precarious game I play.

I was once a favored son in the Dark Elf court, with influence that spread far beyond Pyrthos.

One misstep—a so-called act of treason —landed me here, an outcast in my own domain.

The council uses me when it suits them, but half of them would thrust a blade between my ribs the second they no longer need me.

I return my attention to the courtyard. “What is Lysandra’s condition now?” I ask softly.

“She’s detained in the lesser hall. Guards reported she’s bruised but still combative.” Eiroren tilts her head. “Did you speak with her already?”

“Yes,” I admit. The memory stirs something in my chest, an odd mix of amusement and respect. “She’s… interesting.”

Eiroren’s lips part, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “You’ve rarely shown interest in human prisoners before. Is she truly that valuable?”

I turn to face her fully. My skin is the color of polished obsidian, etched with silver war sigils that mark my noble lineage. I sense her gaze flick down my arms, lingering on those symbols. “I have my reasons,” I answer.

She waits, but I offer no further explanation. Eventually, she inclines her head in acquiescence. “Shall I see to her accommodations?”

“No, I’ll handle that. Just ensure the guards maintain a respectful distance. I don’t want her beaten or harassed unnecessarily.”

“As you wish.” Eiroren’s tone remains polite, but a flash of confusion crosses her features. She, like many others, probably wonders why I care. Human rebels are commonly treated as vermin. Show them any mercy and they’ll bite your hand, or so the court believes.

Yet Lysandra’s anger doesn’t strike me as the mindless rage of a starving peasant. It has purpose, intelligence. In another life, she might have been a formidable ally—or a formidable rival. For now, she’s my captive, and I intend to discover exactly what motivates her.

I dismiss Eiroren with a quick nod. She bows slightly, then glides away, steps fading into the corridor.

Alone again, I lean against the balcony rail and survey the city lights beyond the fortress walls.

Pyrthos is expansive, built along the Turion River Delta.

The farmland that feeds it stretches out in neat, regimented plots, worked by human hands.

Perhaps that’s why Lysandra chose this city for her rebellion—an abundance of slaves and a milder brand of oppression than the truly savage enclaves.

She must have believed it was the best place to ignite a spark of hope.

A lost cause, obviously. Yet a small part of me admires her audacity.

I push away from the railing, stepping back into the fortress’s interior.

The corridor is lined with tapestries depicting hunts led by Dark Elven nobility—gods, kings, and warriors.

Their stories are told in bold swirls of color: silver, midnight blue, deep crimson.

My footsteps echo on the polished floor.

Soon, I pass a pair of guards flanking a heavy door that leads to the main hall. They snap to attention at my approach.

“All quiet, my prince?” one ventures, uncertain if I welcome conversation.

“For now,” I say curtly. Then I continue on, descending a winding staircase that leads to a network of smaller corridors.

The fortress is a maze of chambers: storerooms, private suites for visiting nobles, and hidden passages that date back to the city’s founding.

I know most of them—my old rank once gave me full run of Pyrthos.

Even in exile, my knowledge of these secret halls remains valuable.

That’s partly why the council hasn’t ordered my execution outright; I’m more useful alive.

Another reason is my ability to manipulate shadow magic—though it’s stunted without official sanction from the Dark Elf priesthood.

They made certain of that when they stripped me of certain rites.

Still, I’ve retained enough skill to be dangerous in my own right.

I enter a side chamber where I keep a personal stash of documents. The room is sparsely furnished: a single desk, a chair, a large trunk stuffed with half-burned records from my old estate. A single torch flickers on the wall, revealing swirling dust motes in the air.

Dropping onto the chair, I rummage through a stack of parchments detailing local farmland yields, guard rotations, and the city’s defense spells.

Lysandra and her rebels nearly managed to sabotage those wards earlier.

Impressive. A moment longer, and parts of Pyrthos’s farmland might have gone up in flames, crippling the city’s food supply.

My eyes drifts to the corner of the desk, where an official missive from the council rests.

They want a swift public execution of every rebel, starting with Lysandra.

They claim it will set an example. Another note from King Throsh’s inner circle suggests reinstating some of my privileges if I comply, hinting at the possibility of restoring my formal title.

I feel a faint sneer tug at my lips. Do they truly believe I’d grovel for scraps after they exiled me? My exile taught me to value what little freedom remains in this rigid society. Groveling is for the spineless.

Still… the notion of power has its allure.

If I brought them Lysandra’s severed head, I could barter for more influence.

Enough to usurp the local nobility, perhaps.

But something about that path rings hollow.

She’s too intriguing to dispose of. She possesses a magnetism even in her battered state, an inner force that resonates with my own rebellious streak against the council.

If she could gather so many humans under her leadership, maybe there’s a way to harness that fervor.

Not to mention, I sense something pulsing beneath her bravado.

A hidden strength—maybe not pure magic, but a potential that’s unusual for a human.

I’d prefer to unravel that mystery rather than snuff it out.

A rap on the doorframe jolts me from my thoughts. One of my loyal guards, Rhazien, stands at the threshold. He’s short by Dark Elf standards, but broad-shouldered and fiercely devoted—one of the few I trust not to rat me out to the council at the first sign of trouble.

“My prince, they’ve taken the rebel woman to a small chamber off the lesser hall, as you instructed.” He keeps his voice low, respectful. “She’s had some food. No major incidents—besides cursing at a few guards.”

A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “I’d expect no less from her.” I tap my fingers on the desk. “What do the others say?”

Rhazien’s expression darkens. “Many want to watch her suffer. They lost comrades in the farmland battle. They speak of demanding a blood price. The council’s supporters especially clamor for her execution.”

I resist a weary sigh. Hatred runs deep here. Humans are widely regarded as lesser creatures, suitable only for labor or entertainment. Lysandra’s rebellion chipped at that narrative, prompting fear among my kin. “They can clamor all they like,” I say. “I’m not finished with her.”

Rhazien inclines his head. “Understood, my prince. Shall I move her to one of the dungeons?”