Page 31

Eiroren sighs, shoulders tensing. “I’m suggesting you weigh the cost, Xelith. One woman’s life, even if she’s special, against the entire city. Is she worth your potential downfall?”

Those words slice deep. My chest tightens, recalling how easily I could end this by sacrificing her. Yet an inner voice howls at the mere suggestion. “I refuse,” I say softly, “to make that trade.”

She studies me, eyes narrowing. “Then you must find a new path. Perhaps an alternative plan that satisfies the council without killing her. But the farmland operation has stalled. The enclaves aren’t unified under your banner yet. Sharavel and Kalthos demand blood.”

I rub my temples. “Yes, and we have no time to unify them properly. Lysandra gave me partial intel, but trust was shattered when she tried to flee.”

Eiroren cocks her head. “Trust goes both ways, my prince. She must believe you might betray her to the council. Can you blame her for seeking a fallback?”

I flinch at how well she’s read the situation. “No. I can’t blame her. But it infuriates me all the same.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “Your anger is overshadowed by your concern, though. That alone speaks volumes.”

For a moment, I say nothing, letting the crackle of the hearth fill the silence. Eiroren nods once more, then steps back. “If you need me, I’ll be preparing contingency measures for the farmland. But decide swiftly. The council’s blade hangs over both your necks.”

She leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. I’m alone again with the suffocating knowledge that the simplest solution to save my own throne is the very thing I can’t bring myself to do.

Eventually, I rise, pacing the room in restless circles.

My mind churns with every angle. Could I stage Lysandra’s death, hide her away until I can strike at the council?

Or could we flee Pyrthos entirely, vanish into the wider continent?

But those ideas spiral into chaos. Hiding her might only buy time.

Fleeing would cede the city to the council’s tyranny, and the farmland enclaves would pay in blood.

My footsteps slow near a side table, where a half-empty decanter of strong black liquor sits. Usually, I avoid drinking heavily—my father hammered discipline into me. But tonight, I pour a generous measure, swallowing it in a raw gulp. The burn scalds my throat, matching the roiling fury inside me.

I picture Lysandra’s face when she accused me of using her, the betrayal etched in her eyes.

She might not be entirely wrong. My ambitions always overshadow personal bonds.

But something about her—the defiance, the vulnerability, even the lethal power she harbors—makes me yearn to protect her, not manipulate her.

I drain another mouthful, leaning against the table. A cold wave of despair sets in. I have this overwhelming urge to tear her apart for jeopardizing everything, for forcing me into this corner. Another part can’t imagine letting her slip away.

Through the haze, I recall our moments of closeness. How her lips tasted of fury and desperation, how her voice trembled with need. The memory drags a ragged breath from me. This is deeper than lust. She’s lodged under my skin.

A scuffling sound at the door breaks my reverie. My heart lurches—could it be Lysandra? The wards wouldn’t let just anyone pass. But no, it’s Rhazien returning, face grim.

He bows. “My prince, word from the farmland watchers. Several enclaves remain defiant. They claim they’ll only parley with Lysandra personally. They don’t trust your men.”

I let out a strangled laugh. “Of course they want her. She’s their rebel queen.” Then bitterness seeps in. “She won’t trust me enough to lead them without thinking I might turn on her. And the council demands her head if we fail. Perfect.”

Rhazien’s face tightens. “Shall we force compliance? Or let them remain at the fringes?”

I slam the glass down on the table, the sound echoing. “We have no time for half measures. Summon our best negotiators, but keep them at the edge. If these enclaves insist on Lysandra’s presence, we’ll have to arrange it—but under heavy guard.”

He nods. “And if she refuses?”

“She might. But then the farmland operation stalls, and the council tightens the noose.” I press fingers to my temple. My mind conjures the image of Lysandra’s shock if I try to force her into this. Another reason for her to flee or fight me.

Rhazien’s silence speaks volumes. He sees me unraveling.

“Go,” I say wearily. “Prepare the men. We’ll attempt a controlled meeting with one of the enclaves tomorrow morning.”

He bows again, then departs. Tomorrow morning. The day after that, the council’s deadline hits. If we haven’t pacified the farmland by then, or if Lysandra so much as twitches out of line, war looms.

Time drags. I slump onto a padded bench near the hearth, exhaustion washing over me. The door wards flicker again. I stiffen, bracing for more unwelcome news. Instead, Lysandra steps inside, flanked by a guard who lingers in the hall. My heart clenches the moment I see her.

She looks wary, shoulders rigid, eyes flicking to the liquor decanter. “I’m not interrupting?”

I swallow the urge to snap. “No. I told the guards to let you pass if you came.”

She approaches slowly, as if entering a wolf’s den. And perhaps she is. Our gazes lock, tension swirling. “I heard rumors from a soldier about farmland enclaves demanding my presence. Is that true?”

I nod, scrubbing a hand across my face. “Yes. They won’t negotiate unless they see you in person. They likely want confirmation you haven’t sold them out.” My lips twist in a bitter smile. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

She exhales. “And you plan to drag me there tomorrow?”

My throat tightens. “If you refuse, the enclaves remain defiant. The council will declare we failed to subdue them, or that you’ve used illusions to trick me. Then they’ll demand your life. The deadline is upon us.”

She flinches, a flicker of guilt crossing her face. “So I have no choice.”

My voice comes out harsher than intended. “No, you don’t.”

Silence stretches, fraught with so many unspoken things. She folds her arms, gaze darting around the cluttered study. “Xelith… you’re furious with me. And I’m not exactly pleased with you. But if meeting them is what it takes to spare them from slaughter, I’ll do it.”

My chest aches at her weary resolve. I recall the day she tried to escape. The assassins, her terror, my own panic. I can’t keep her safe if we keep clashing.

I stand, crossing to her in a few strides. She tenses, but doesn’t back away. “I hate the position we’re in,” I admit, voice low. “I hate that the council is forcing my hand. I hate that I can’t simply… let you go.”

Her breath catches. “And if you did? Let me go, I mean.”

I let out a ragged laugh. “Then the council hunts you, calls me traitor, and unleashes chaos. We both lose.”

She lowers her gaze, shoulders slumping. “So we’re trapped.”

I reach out hesitantly, fingers brushing the side of her arm. The contact sends a faint tremor through me. “Yes. But if we manage to placate the enclaves, maybe we buy enough time to slip the council’s noose.”

She lifts her eyes, the depth of her vulnerability hitting me hard. “All right. I’ll do my part. But if I sense a trap?—”

My grip on her arm tightens, a pang of hurt. “I won’t betray you, Lysandra. Not to them.”

She studies me as if trying to read the truth behind my words. Then, with a small nod, she breaks eye contact. “I’ll hold you to that.”

We stand close, so much tension swirling that it’s a wonder the air doesn’t ignite. The memory of our frantic intimacy lingers, overshadowed by the strife that followed. My chest feels tight. A wave of guilt surges—she’s turned to me for some form of assurance, and I have so little to give.

I clear my throat. “Tomorrow, we ride at dawn. A small retinue, carefully chosen. We approach the enclaves near the southern farmland. You’ll address them, confirm I haven’t forced you to yield your people.”

Her mouth twists, suspicion brimming. “I can try. But they might demand I leave with them. Will you allow that?”

My heart stutters. Allow her to vanish with the rebels? The council would label me incompetent, or suspect a trick. War might break out. But the thought of denying her that chance to be free sears me.

“I… we’ll see,” I whisper, unsure of my own answer.

She exhales, stepping away. “Let me rest. I need a clear head by dawn.”

I nod woodenly. She slips out, leaving me with the smoldering hearth and the roiling conflict in my soul. Killing her would be easy, losing her impossible. The council’s deadline looms, Rhazien’s warnings echo, and I can’t find a path that spares us both from heartbreak or bloodshed.

Hours drag as I pace, the flames dying to embers.

My mind cycles through potential outcomes: Lysandra enthralls the enclaves, we unify them quickly; the council grows suspicious, demands her immediate surrender; or perhaps the enclaves distrust me so thoroughly that everything collapses.

In each scenario, her survival hangs by a thread.

At some point, exhaustion claims me. I drift into a restless doze in the chair, haunted by dreams of a council chamber filled with shrieking voices, Lysandra bound in chains. My father’s face looms, sneering at my weakness. You let your heart overshadow your cunning.

I jolt awake, heart pounding, the room darker than before. The hearth’s embers glow faintly, casting long shadows. My throat is parched, my limbs heavy with dread. I can’t do this, can I?

In the hush, I realize something fundamental has shifted in me.

The knowledge of Lysandra’s sirenblood, her rebellious spirit, her vulnerability—somehow, it’s torn down my barriers.

I want more than just to wield her as a tool.

I want her to stand beside me, forging a path that defies the council’s tyranny.

And that, ironically, might seal our doom.

Sighing, my face sinks in my hands. The weight of guilt, fury, and an impossible longing presses in.

This is my dark night of the soul, the moment I realize I’ve stepped beyond rational ambition into something deeply personal.

If the council demands her death… part of me wonders if I’d burn Pyrthos to the ground to keep her safe.

A quiet knock sounds at the door. My heart lurches. “Enter,” I rasp.

Eiroren peeks in, looking subdued. She glances at my haggard state with concern. “It’s nearly dawn, my prince. You said you’d ride to the farmland.”

I stiffen, forcing myself upright. Dawn already. “Right. Thank you.”

She hesitates. “I see your turmoil. Whatever happens, I stand with you.” A flicker of empathy warms her voice.

I offer a curt nod, unable to voice gratitude. She steps out, leaving me alone once more. The time has come to face the farmland enclaves, try to satisfy the council’s demands. Lysandra will accompany me. We’ll walk a razor’s edge—any misstep, and the council’s deadline becomes my condemnation.

As I rise, the half-empty liquor decanter catches my eye. For a moment, I consider drowning my fear in another swallow. Yet I force the feeling down. I need a clear mind.

My fingers brush the hilt of a dagger sheathed at my belt. Killing her is easy, losing her impossible, the refrain repeats. A bitter chuckle escapes me. I can’t decide which path is more dangerous.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I steel myself. No more hesitation. If I must defy the council to spare Lysandra, so be it. I’ll gather what allies remain, fight if necessary. The alternative—delivering her head on a silver platter—is unthinkable.

I exit the study, wards sealing behind me. In the corridor, a small group of loyal guards awaits, along with Rhazien. Lysandra stands near them, face drawn, arms folded. Our gazes meet, a flicker of tension bridging the gap. She must sense my inner turmoil. But neither of us speaks.

Rhazien steps forward. “We’re ready, my prince. Horses prepared in the lower courtyard. We’ll escort Lysandra to the farmland enclaves as planned.”

I nod. “Then let’s go.”

We move through the fortress’s labyrinthine halls, descending broad staircases until we emerge into the crisp morning air of the courtyard.

Dawn spills gold along the high walls, the city stirring to life beyond.

Soldiers and stable hands bustle around a line of glossy black horses.

Lysandra quietly takes the reins of one, glancing at me with guarded eyes.

I mount my own steed, heart pounding a steady war drum in my ears. The council’s ultimatum hovers like a dark cloud. Two days. If we fail, they want her dead. I grit my teeth, guiding my horse forward as the gates open with a groan. Lysandra falls in behind me, a small contingent flanking us.

Once we pass through the fortress gates, the city streets greet us with hushed curiosity.

We ride in tense silence, eventually hitting the farmland roads that stretch out in neat, cultivated rows.

Despite the lush greenery, fear thrums under my skin.

By tonight, we either secure enough enclaves to appease the council or face unimaginable consequences.

And all the while, the more I consider handing her over, the more the idea repulses me.

My father would curse my sentimentality, but I can’t see Lysandra as just a chess piece anymore.

She’s become vital to me, a living embodiment of everything I desire to change in this world.

If that means war with the council, so be it.

I lower my gaze to the reins, recollecting the swirl of her hair on my pillow, the taste of her frustration and desire. The guilt stabs deeper—my anger at her betrayal, her anger at mine. We’re stuck in a vicious cycle, each equally capable of destroying the other. Yet I can’t let her go.

Raising my eyes, I see the farmland horizon stretching wide, a patchwork of fields and distant huts.

Lysandra rides beside me, posture tense.

We exchange a brief look, and in it, I see her fear, her hope, and the flicker of unresolved longing.

That alone spurs me on. I’ll face down the council’s wrath if it means keeping her from their inquisitors’ knives.

We press onward, hearts heavy with the knowledge that every passing moment draws us closer to a breaking point. The farmland wind rustles the crops, and overhead, the morning sun climbs, oblivious to the war brewing in our hearts.

One thing is certain , I vow silently as we near the first enclave.

I will not kill her. I might lose everything else—my throne, my city, my life—but I will not lose Lysandra to the council’s blade.

Because for all my father’s teachings, for all my carefully built armor, I realize now that losing her is a fate I cannot endure.

And that truth, stark and fierce, might reshape my destiny forever.