Page 35

XELITH

I stand on the border of a narrow clearing, watching the first rays of dawn break over the farmland.

Pale sunlight threads through the twisted orchard trees, illuminating the dew-damp grass that carpets the ground.

Behind me, a small band of loyal soldiers and a few wary human rebels gather in cautious alliance, nursing wounds and exhaustion after our midnight flight from the fortress.

It still feels surreal, turning my back on the council, proclaiming myself a traitor to save Lysandra.

I can sense the tension rippling through both groups.

The Dark Elves in my retinue have always served me, but now they’re uncertain, estranged from the fortress they once called home.

The humans are likewise uneasy, unsure how much faith to put in a Dark Elf prince, however many times I’ve defied my kin.

Yet in the midst of all that friction, we share a singular focus: survival against the council’s impending wrath.

We can’t remain in the open for long. Rumors swirl that the council might dispatch an entire battalion to capture or kill us.

We’ve found temporary refuge in this remote orchard clearing—a vantage point that offers concealment while we plan our next steps.

I rake my fingers through my hair, scanning the horizon.

A flicker of movement catches my eye: Lysandra.

She emerges from the orchard’s edge, walking carefully around a broken fence post. My pulse quickens at the sight of her.

Despite everything that’s happened, relief surges through me each time I realize she’s free.

Our gazes lock. She hesitates, then crosses the clearing, ignoring the curious glances from soldiers and rebels. Beneath the morning light, her dark hair frames her face in loose waves, and although fatigue lingers in her posture, there’s a quiet determination in her stride.

I recall vividly how I found her in that council chamber, bound and alone, how fury and desperation collided inside me.

Even now, I can’t quite process the enormity of my choice: turning my blade against Kalthos, Nyrus, and the entire council who once shaped my destiny.

But if saving her demanded it, so be it.

When she reaches me, she tilts her head, meeting my eyes without flinching. “We scouted the perimeter,” she says quietly. “No sign of the council’s troops yet.”

“Good,” I murmur, though tension still coils in my chest. “We’ll need to move soon. This orchard can’t conceal so many for long.”

She nods, a faint crease between her brows. “I overheard your soldiers discussing the farmland enclaves. Some are willing to shelter us, but only if they see real unity between you and me.” A hollow laugh escapes her. “They think I might be enthralled by you, ironically.”

The corner of my mouth lifts in a wry smirk. “A fitting twist, given how they once claimed you enthrall others.”

Her lips quirk, but the humor doesn’t fully reach her eyes.

A hush falls between us, weighted by recent events.

The orchard stirs with early morning wind, rustling leaves overhead.

Past the tree line, a few of my men stand watch, weapons at the ready.

Lysandra and I remain momentarily apart from them all, the dawn’s light catching on the faint bruises that mark her throat and arms. Rage tugs at me again, recalling how the council’s goons manhandled her. I should’ve been faster.

She folds her arms across her chest. “So, what now? We can’t stay hidden forever. The enclaves that remain might not trust us enough to stage a real defense against the council.”

I exhale, letting my gaze stray to the horizon. “We gather those enclaves that do trust you. We offer them a true alliance—Dark Elves and humans united in defiance of the council. We can use illusions or your voice to deter small detachments, but if the council sends a legion…” My voice trails off.

Her throat works. “You’re saying we might need to keep running?”

I grimace, the admission searing me. “Possibly. Unless we muster enough force to hold a position. But our numbers are pitiful right now.”

She studies me, then lifts her chin, stepping closer. “You risked everything for me,” she says quietly. “I’ve spent so long doubting you, thinking you’d hand me over if it benefited you. But you didn’t.”

A pang resonates in my chest. “I couldn’t,” I admit, voice low. “Not when I… Not after…” Words fail me, but the memory of our stolen moments lingers like a brand.

She looks away, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “I know. And I’m grateful, though that word feels too small.”

We stand, an odd hush enveloping us in the orchard. My men and the rebels keep their distance, as if sensing we need this moment alone. The fragile alliance depends on us, but so does something deeper—our own battered hearts.

Eventually, she exhales shakily. “I hate that we’re always in a crisis. We don’t have space to breathe or talk about what happened—between us.”

A hollow laugh escapes me. “Indeed. War looms, yet we… we share something I can’t name, Lysandra.” My voice lowers, betraying the vulnerability I’ve tried to hide. “You vex me like no other. You push me to the brink of madness, yet I can’t imagine letting you go.”

Her eyes glimmer, tension layering her posture. She swallows, glancing around at the orchard’s sunlit edges. “We need to finalize a plan soon. But maybe…” She hesitates, as if summoning courage. “We can talk somewhere more private? Just for a moment?”

Relief mingles with yearning in my chest. I nod, gesturing for one of my guards to keep watch and ensure no immediate threats close in. Then I guide Lysandra behind a dense cluster of orchard trees, away from prying gazes. The hush deepens, the morning breeze rustling overhead.

We stop near a gnarled trunk, patches of moss clinging to the bark. I can smell the damp earth, the faint sweetness of ripe orchard fruit. She shifts, arms tense at her sides, as if uncertain how to begin.

“It’s been madness,” she finally says, voice trembling slightly, “and we haven’t had a chance to?—”

I step forward, unable to contain the surge of emotion any longer. My hand lifts to gently brush a lock of hair from her face. Her breath catches, eyes darkening with the swirl of so many unspoken feelings.

“It has,” I agree softly. “You nearly died in that council cell. I nearly lost everything. And still…”

She exhales, shoulders slumping as though letting down a shield. Her voice is ragged, raw. “I can’t stop thinking about that night we… gave in. I told myself it meant nothing, that we were just desperate. But now…”

My heart thuds, remembering the frantic heat, the anger and need that bound us together. My thumb grazes her jaw, and she leans into the touch, half-lidded eyes betraying the flicker of longing. It feels like a lifetime since we shared that closeness.

She bites her lip. “I don’t want to regret it,” she whispers. “But with everything—your people, my people, the illusions, the council— we barely know how to talk without biting each other’s heads off.”

A soft laugh escapes me. “True. But maybe that’s who we are—caught between conflict and this… unstoppable draw.”

She shifts closer, the orchard’s dappled sunlight casting shifting patterns across her cheeks. I can’t resist. I slip my hand in her midsection, pulling her carefully against me. She exhales, pressing a palm to my chest. The tension melts into an aching tenderness that floods my veins.

“Xelith,” she murmurs, voice trembling. “If we do this again, I need to know it’s real.”

My chest tightens. “It is. Despite the madness, it’s the only thing that feels real right now.”

A shiver runs through her. Then she surges up on her toes, lips finding mine with a desperate urgency. A groan tears from my throat. Her fingers curl into my hair, breath mingling with mine as we taste each other’s frustration and relief. The orchard fades, replaced by the pounding of our hearts.

I back her against the broad trunk of the tree, mindful of the bruises that still mark her body.

Our mouths meld hungrily, releasing the pent-up tension coiled in us for days.

She kisses me as though I’m her lifeline, nails scraping lightly over my shoulders.

My pulse thunders, responding with a fierce need that overtakes all caution.

A ragged moan escapes her when my hand slides down to cup her hip, drawing her flush against me. The closeness reignites memories of that night—how we clung to each other like the world was ending. Maybe it was. Maybe it still is. But right now, here, we have one sliver of solace.

We break apart momentarily, gasping for air. Her storm-gray eyes burn with an intensity that steals my breath. “I hate that I want this so badly,” she whispers, voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “But I can’t deny it anymore.”

A shaky laugh slips from my mouth, brushing my lips along her jaw. “I feel the same. You drive me mad, but losing you would destroy me.”

Her answering laugh dissolves into a needy sigh when I nip gently at her earlobe.

The orchard’s rustling leaves mask our quiet sounds, though a part of me remains aware that we’re dangerously exposed out here.

Yet urgency flares, a primal hunger that overrides practicality.

We might die tomorrow, or the next day, in battle against the council. Give me this moment, I plead silently.

She threads her fingers through my hair, tipping her head back. I trail my mouth down her neck, tasting the subtle salt of her skin. Each breath from her becomes a delicate whimper. The orchard spins around us as we sink to our knees on the soft grass, tangling in each other’s arms.

Her tunic rides up under my searching hands, revealing bruises and scars that make my chest tighten with both anger and admiration. She’s so resilient, so strong. I want to worship every inch of her, to show her that for all the chaos we face, here in my arms, she’s cherished.