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LYSANDRA

I stand on the corner of Pyrthos’s grand courtyard, every muscle coiled with tension.

Two weeks ago, I was just a rebel slipping through shadowed alleys.

Now I march at the head of an army—albeit a ragged, uneasy alliance of humans and Dark Elves.

The dawn sky casts a pale orange glow over towering spires and fortress walls, gilding the ancient stones in temporary serenity.

It feels like the final calm before the world ignites.

Xelith dismounts beside me, his obsidian skin gleaming in the half-light, the silver war sigils on his forearms capturing the dawn’s shimmer.

He’s returned to these walls he once called home, a prince no longer welcomed by his own.

For the first time, I sense his apprehension rolling off him—despite the controlled expression on his face, there’s a tension in the line of his shoulders.

I swallow hard, scanning the courtyard. Guards line the parapets, their silhouettes motionless against the sky.

Down below, we see a cluster of council loyalists forming ranks, spears gleaming.

There’s no subtlety here: they know we’ve come.

Even from this distance, I feel the charged hostility, a wave of animosity that radiates from the fortress walls.

Behind me, our combined forces wait with bated breath.

Humans dressed in scavenged leathers, carrying makeshift weapons, stand side by side with a handful of Dark Elf soldiers who chose Xelith over the council.

They don’t fully trust one another, but they move in uneasy solidarity—because if we fail, we all face extermination.

“Ready?” Xelith murmurs. His voice is pitched low, a private question in the midst of so many watchful eyes.

A tremor runs through me, but I lift my chin. “As I’ll ever be,” I answer, though my throat feels tight.

He gives a curt nod, stepping forward to address Takar—his second-in-command who’s proven fiercely loyal.

Takar signals the advance, and we begin crossing the courtyard at a measured pace, hooves clacking on stone for those still mounted, boots thudding for the rest. Every step pounds in my chest like a drumbeat to war.

I recall the orchard meeting, the strategy we formed: walk openly into Pyrthos’s main court, demand an audience, show we are no rabble to be dismissed.

The farmland enclaves stand behind us, refusing to be cowered by the council’s cruelty.

We’ll give them one chance—one—before I unleash the siren magic I’ve kept so long subdued. No more hiding.

As we close in, the gates of the inner fortress swing wide.

A throng of armed guards streams out, ranks of black-lacquered armor shining under torchlight.

Tension spikes. My breath hitches, remembering the day I first saw these soldiers from my knees, manacles cutting into my wrists.

Now I stand free, illusions swirling just beneath my skin.

At the forefront of the guards, I recognize Nyrus, that smug noble who once tried to corner me. He sets his narrow gaze on me like a predator. To his right, Lord Kalthos stands, fingers curling around a staff carved with arcane runes. My stomach knots at the memory of him issuing my death sentence.

“Prince Xelith!” Nyrus calls, voice echoing off the courtyard walls. “You come uninvited, leading rebels. You dare defy the council’s commands again?”

Xelith holds his head high, cloak fluttering in the light breeze. “Uninvited? Hardly. The council has demanded my presence for weeks. Now we arrive with the farmland enclaves, no longer cowering under your decrees.”

A ripple of unease travels through the guards.

I see them shift, glancing at the ragtag but determined force behind us.

Kalthos steps forward, staff tapping the stone.

“We demanded your surrender,” he corrects coldly, “not this display of insolence. And Lysandra Riven—” he spits my name with open contempt, “—was to be handed over for execution. Or did you think we forgot her attempt to enthrall our men?”

My heart thuds, but I steel my voice. “Try as you might, you can’t purge an entire farmland that stands against you. We’ve come to show there is another way. Surrender this fortress, free the humans in your dungeons, or stand aside.”

It’s a bold demand. I catch Takar’s startled glance. But I press on. We have one shot. Let’s make it count.

Nyrus snorts. “You delude yourself if you think a handful of peasants can breach Pyrthos.”

Xelith’s mouth tightens into a grim line. “I’ve seen enough of the council’s tyranny. The farmland stands behind us, and if you persist in oppression, we’ll raze your seat of power until no stone stands.”

A collective hush falls. I spot Kalthos scanning the crowd, likely noting how many orchard rebels we have. He must see we’re not an overwhelming army, but neither are we helpless.

Sharavel, robed in regal attire, emerges from behind the guards. Her eyes burn with malice. “You dare speak of razing what remains of your birthright?” she accuses Xelith. “You stoop to a rebel’s level, tarnishing Vaeranthe’s noble line.”

His jaw clenches. “Better to tarnish a name that once stood for cruelty than continue living as its pawn.”

A flicker of genuine rage crosses Sharavel’s face. “Traitor,” she hisses. “Your father would be sickened by your weakness.”

I see Xelith stiffen, a tremor passing through him at the mention of his father. But he stands unyielding. “If protecting those you consider beneath you is weakness, then yes, I’m weak,” he retorts. “But we didn’t come here to trade barbs. We came to finish this.”

He casts me a meaningful look, and a cold tingle slides through my veins. This is our cue. My illusions churn inside me, ready to be unleashed. I recall our plan: if the council refuses negotiation, I reveal my siren power openly, fracturing their defenses.

Kalthos grips his staff, voice raising. “Guards! Seize them all. Show no mercy.”

Nyrus echoes the command, and I see the front lines of guards readying weapons. My pulse skyrockets. We tried offering them a chance. They want blood.

Xelith’s voice rings out: “Stand with the orchard enclaves, or face the consequence of your cruelty!” But the guards surge forward anyway, an armored tide.

Our allied force braces. Takar roars for the orchard rebels to stand firm, pikes leveled. A clang of steel erupts as the first wave of guards collides with our front line. Fear jabs my gut, but I push it aside, stepping forward to do my part.

“Lysandra!” Xelith calls, raising an arm as shadow magic swirls around it. “Now.”

I nod, letting illusions flood my vision.

My heart hammers. No more hiding. I focus on the throng of guards racing toward me—powerful, disciplined, certain of the council’s supremacy.

Summoning a deep breath, I shape illusions across the courtyard.

The stone floor ripples, conjured shapes of bristling phantom warriors.

Confusion breaks among the guards. Some lunge at phantoms that dissolve into smoke. Others cry out in fear as illusions coil around them, feigning monstrous shapes. It’s not real, but it doesn’t have to be if it distracts them.

Nyrus snarls, slashing a blade at the nearest phantom, only to find empty air. He whips around, gaze landing on me. “Her illusions again—kill her!”

Crossbowmen lift their weapons, taking aim. I grit my teeth, pushing illusions to obscure me, but a volley of bolts streaks overhead. I hear a rebel scream behind me. My blood runs cold. We can’t hold illusions forever. We must strike decisively.

Xelith steps in, shadows slithering from his arms. A swirl of darkness envelops some archers, yanking crossbows away. He moves with lethal grace, slicing through the confusion. My illusions warp the courtyard, and Xelith’s shadow magic exploits that confusion, neutralizing the biggest threats.

A guard lunges at me, long spear angled for my throat. I gasp, illusions flickering as I scramble back. Don’t falter now. Anger surges. I tap the siren power that simmers beneath my illusions, letting my voice resonate.

“Stop,” I command, enthralling resonance lacing the word.

The guard’s eyes glaze for an instant. He falters, weapon dipping. I leap aside, Takar stepping in to knock him unconscious. My illusions shimmer dangerously—my stamina wavers from wielding illusions and enthrallment. But if we fail now, the council will pick us off.

Kalthos strides forward, staff radiating arcane power.

He hurls a bolt of sizzling energy that rips through my illusions, dispersing some phantasms. I reel, light-headed.

Xelith dashes across the courtyard to block Kalthos’s second bolt.

The air crackles with the collision of shadow and arcane force.

“Traitor prince!” Kalthos snarls. “We should’ve executed you long ago!”

Xelith grimaces, shadows flickering under the barrage. “You had your chance,” he rasps, voice fierce. “Now you face your own hypocrisy!”

They lock in a deadly dance, swirling magic lighting the courtyard with purple arcs. I try to conjure illusions to aid Xelith, but Sharavel intercepts me, chanting a spell that sends a blade of shimmering force careening my way. I fling myself aside, illusions sputtering under the pressure.

A flicker at the side caught my eyes, I see orchard rebels clashing with fortress guards. The clang of steel echoes, men shouting, spells sizzling. Fear pulses in my veins. We might be overwhelmed if we can’t break the council’s nerve soon.

Sharavel steps closer, a malevolent smile twisting her lips. “Your illusions may disorient my men, but I’ve studied your trickery. I won’t fall for it so easily.”

My stomach knots. She’s likely prepared wards or has the mental fortitude to resist illusions. But I still have enthrallment. My lips part, voice trembling with the siren undertones. “Yield, Sharavel,” I command, weaving enthrallment into each syllable.