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XELITH

T he corridors feel colder than usual tonight.

Each torch and mana-lamp seems to glow with a subdued, listless light, echoing my own turmoil.

I make my way past the silent guards stationed at every turn, acknowledging them with curt nods.

The swirl of passing servants and lesser nobles hushes when they see me approach—perhaps sensing the black mood coiling under my composure.

Or maybe they’ve heard the latest rumor: the council’s ultimatum.

I pause at the threshold of my private study, the wards flickering in recognition.

The door opens at my touch, revealing a small, firelit chamber crammed with ledgers and half-burned scrolls.

Shadows writhe on the walls, cast by the flames dancing in the stone hearth.

The hush inside feels oppressive, a suffocating mirror of my own mind.

I shut the door behind me, wards sealing with a soft hiss.

Only then do I exhale the tension constricting my chest. Days ago, I was confident in my plan to manipulate the council, incorporate Lysandra’s knowledge, and stave off wholesale bloodshed in the farmland.

But now… everything feels precarious. I can’t deny the coil of fury—and guilt—that tangles in my gut.

Lysandra tried to escape, nearly got herself killed.

And part of me has this urge wring her neck for the risk she took. But another part?

I shut my eyes, raking a hand through my silver hair. Another part of me can’t stand to see her hurt.

The memory of hauling her out of that courtyard—her wide, terrified eyes, the assassins’ blades—sears my mind.

I reacted with savage protectiveness, a raw, instinctive rage that caught me off guard.

If I’d arrived a moment later, she would have bled out on the stones.

The idea of her dead twists my stomach. I sink into a chair, gripping the armrests until they creak.

It shouldn’t be like this. She’s a rebel, a threat, a sirenborn.

I should see her as a pawn in my grander game, nothing more.

But the night we spent together—raw, desperate—lies between us now like a brand.

Even though she defied me afterward, I can’t erase the memory of her pulse under my lips, the taste of her skin, that frantic union.

My heart slams against my ribs at the thought.

Killing her would be so simple, the practical side of me hisses.

One swift blade, or a single nod to the council, and I could free myself from these impossible burdens.

The farmland enclaves might be pacified another way.

The council would restore my status, my throne, if I deliver her head. They demand it every day.

But losing her? The notion sends a bolt of something akin to panic through me. As if a piece of my world would crumble beyond repair. Gods, when did this become so personal?

I press my palms against my eyes, fighting the swirl of contradictory impulses.

My father once warned me that personal attachments weaken a leader’s resolve.

He always taught me to see beyond fleeting emotion, to wield relationships like blades.

And yet… here I am, teetering on the edge of madness because I can’t stomach handing Lysandra over.

A knock at the door rouses me. “Enter,” I say sharply, schooling my face into neutrality.

Rhazien steps in, bowing low. His eyes flick to the tense set of my shoulders. “My prince, we’ve received new correspondence from Sharavel. She insists on a stricter deadline for Lysandra’s compliance—two days, not three. They threaten to brand you a traitor if no progress is shown.”

Fury ignites in my chest. They’re pushing me even harder. “So now they presume to accelerate their demands.” My voice comes out tight, simmering with suppressed anger.

“Yes.” Rhazien offers a folded parchment sealed with the council’s crest. “They mention conflict near the farmland enclaves, minor skirmishes. They blame Lysandra for inciting it.”

I snap open the parchment, skimming the neat lines of acidic prose.

Indeed, Sharavel declares that Lysandra’s presence in the fortress is undermining the council’s authority, fueling rebellious hope.

The final lines threaten open war with my supporters if I fail to produce Lysandra for execution or mind-breaking interrogation.

My teeth grind. “They want her head on a pike. And they want it soon.”

Rhazien nods grimly. “Yes, my prince. They also mention that any illusions or enthrallments used by Lysandra will be grounds for immediate condemnation.”

A cold sweat dots my brow. If the council uncovers her sirenblood, they’ll do worse than kill her. They’ll likely dissect every last nuance of her power, leaving her a broken husk. I can’t allow that.

Rhazien shifts. “What do we do? The farmland enclaves you planned to absorb remain only partially subdued. Lysandra’s partial intel wasn’t enough to quell them. If the council sees no improvement, they’ll act.”

I rise from my chair, pacing to the hearth. Flames flicker, casting sinuous reflections on the floor. The choice weighs heavier than any I’ve faced. Deliver Lysandra to the council, or defy them and face potential civil war.

“We continue our attempt to unify the enclaves,” I say, voice low. “But the council’s timeline is impossible. They want results in two days, or they brand me a traitor. That would unravel all I’ve tried to accomplish.”

Rhazien stands silent, tension etched on his features. He’s served me loyally, but even he must question if I’m prioritizing Lysandra’s life over my own ambition.

“Any sign of further assassin activity?” I ask, changing topics abruptly.

He shakes his head. “Nothing conclusive. But the men we captured remain silent, refusing to name who hired them. Probably members of the lower nobility, orchestrated by Nyrus or another. I suspect there are more in waiting.”

A bitter laugh escapes me. “They see me as compromised— enthralled by a human’s wiles. They’d strike the moment they sense a clear chance.”

Rhazien hesitates. “If you complied with the council’s demand—handing Lysandra over—those assassination attempts would cease. It might restore your position.”

His words stab like a blade. Handing her over. The simplest route. My entire body rebels at the notion. I recall the flash of her eyes, the tremor in her voice, the taste of her. The thought of giving her up to Sharavel’s inquisitors makes me feel physically ill.

“No,” I manage, voice tight. “I won’t do that.”

He inclines his head, though uncertainty lingers in his eyes. I wave him off, needing solitude. With another bow, he departs, leaving me alone with my roiling thoughts.

I lean against the hearth, heat from the flames warming my face but not reaching the chill in my chest. Guilt grips me.

I’m responsible for Lysandra’s predicament.

I claimed her, used her, entangled her in a plan that might never succeed.

Now the council demands her death, and she no longer trusts me enough to stay hidden.

She tried to flee, nearly died in the attempt, and I can’t even blame her.

Raising my hand, I stare at the faint lines of old scars across my palm—scars from my youth, from duels fought to secure my place as a prince.

My entire life has been about proving my worth to a court that never truly respected me.

Now I stand at a crossroads. If I relinquish Lysandra, I secure my future among them.

If I refuse, they’ll treat me as a traitor.

Could I survive that? Could I gather enough loyalists to wage war on the council?

My father’s memory haunts me. He was ruthless, never let empathy cloud his decisions.

But each time I consider handing Lysandra over, my pulse flares with revulsion.

She’s sirenborn, yes, but also… she’s become more to me than a mere captive.

Something deeper stirs whenever she’s near, a sense of belonging I’ve never felt with anyone else.

The night we shared burned that truth into my bones.

How is that possible? I was so sure my interest was shallow curiosity, or lust tinted with danger. But now, the thought of her lifeless eyes, her voice silenced, unmoors me. I can’t bear to lose her, but I also can’t see a path forward that doesn’t end in destruction.

Agony knots my gut. I slump into the chair again, burying my face in my hands.

If I were a simpler man, I’d kill her myself, end this madness.

Or if I were purely rebellious, I’d gather an army and tear the council down.

But my resources are finite. The farmland enclaves are scattered.

And Lysandra’s illusions—her enthrallment—can’t singlehandedly overthrow an entire city’s worth of Dark Elf might.

I hear a rustle at the door. “Stay out,” I snap, not in the mood for more company. The wards must have recognized someone.

A hesitant voice replies, “Xelith?” It’s Eiroren—her footsteps hush across the threshold. She’s one of the few who can pass the wards, having served as a lesser noble in my retinue.

I don’t bother sitting up. “What is it, Eiroren?”

She moves closer, the swish of robes audible. “I won’t intrude long. But the council’s ultimatum spreads through the halls. They say you have two days to produce Lysandra’s head or face open censure.”

“I know,” I grumble, lifting my face from my hands.

She hesitates, eyes flicking over my drawn expression. “I see the toll this takes on you, my prince. If you want my counsel… now’s the time.”

A muscle twitches in my jaw. “I have precious little faith in counsel these days.”

She dips her head, unwavering. “All the same, consider the bigger picture. You risk civil unrest by defying the council. They hold the majority support. If you become an open traitor, the farmland might crumble, and your enemies multiply.”

My tone turns sharp. “Are you suggesting I deliver Lysandra?”