Page 40

XELITH

I taste blood in the air—hot, metallic, and far too familiar.

My lungs burn from the exertion of channeling shadows, illusions swirl at my peripheral vision, and the Great Hall’s marble floor is slick with spilled gore.

I can’t tell how many council guards or orchard rebels are wounded.

All I know is that we stand in the heart of Pyrthos’s stronghold, trapped between towering columns and broken candelabras, and the final blow has yet to land.

Beside me, Lysandra sags against a cracked pillar, sweat beading her forehead.

Her illusions and siren voice have disoriented half the courtyard, but we haven’t won yet.

Arrows still clatter around us, fired from the upper balconies.

If I close my eyes, I can hear the trembling hush of archers uncertain whether to shoot again—one misstep, and they might be enthralled by Lysandra’s voice or snared in my shadows.

Around us, orchard rebels rally, supporting their wounded, while the last pockets of the council’s guard cling to their positions.

My stomach twists as I recall how bravely they fought to protect Lysandra and me from the council’s worst. We’re outnumbered.

If the council’s reinforcements converge, we’ll be buried in a tide of steel.

But we came here for a purpose: to break the council’s grip on the farmland, to prove we are no longer pawns.

Most of all, to ensure Lysandra never again faces their execution orders.

My father’s old seat of power has become a cage for both humans and Dark Elves, and we’re here to tear open that cage once and for all.

A ragged cough draws my attention. I see Takar, my second-in-command, staggering beneath a dented breastplate.

Blood trickles down his temple, but he still clutches his sword, unwavering.

He jerks his chin, pointing toward the dais at the far side of the hall.

“We have to end it, my prince.” His voice echoes in the battered space.

I nod, drawing in a steadying breath. If we keep skirmishing with the guard, we’ll drown in reinforcements eventually.

The orchard rebels can’t last long in a pitched fight.

We need to strike at the council’s heart—Sharavel, Kalthos, Nyrus—the ones who orchestrated this entire fiasco.

They’re the reason Lysandra bled under these very stones, the reason we’re forced to defy everything we once knew.

If they fall or concede, the fortress might stand down.

“Form on me!” I bellow, forcing my voice to carry despite the chaos.

Around a dozen orchard fighters and a few loyal Dark Elf soldiers pivot toward me.

We still have some measure of strength. Lysandra limps to my side, illusions sputtering at her fingertips.

We exchange a wordless look—exhaustion in her eyes, but a fierce determination overshadowing it.

“Let’s finish this,” she whispers, voice trembling with adrenaline. Even now, a faint echo of enthrallment hums in her tone, a subtle resonance that makes the hair on my neck prickle. She wields it carefully, not wanting to enthrall our own people by mistake.

We push forward, slicing through the swirl of bodies that still remain in the Great Hall.

Council loyalists fall back, battered by illusions and orchard steel.

Some attempt a last-ditch stand, but Takar and the orchard rebels repel them.

My shadows lash out, disarming a guard who tries to lob a spear at Lysandra.

She nods in grateful acknowledgment, a silent vow that we’re in this together.

Ahead, the dais steps loom—once the seat of the ruling council, the site of countless edicts that condemned humans to forced labor and outcasts to certain death.

Fractured columns litter the space, arcane runes flickering faintly along the floor’s mosaic.

I sense wards in the air, a subtle hum that the council likely activated to suppress illusions or enthrallment.

That might hamper Lysandra’s power if we get too close. We must be swift.

We crest the dais steps, hacking aside a pair of guards who fling themselves between us and the cluster of robed figures.

My chest heaves with each breath, the ache of bruises radiating from my ribs.

From my side vision, I catch Lysandra grimace, clutching her side where she was struck earlier.

Still, she pushes onward, illusions swirling in her free hand.

Her eyes narrow on the figures near the dais—Sharavel, Kalthos, and Nyrus.

She focuses on them like a predator locking onto its final kill.

Sharavel stands center stage, robes torn, a faint silver glow emanating from a pendant at her throat.

Likely a ward against enthrallment. Kalthos grips his staff, arcane energy flickering at the tip.

Nyrus cradles an arm, a fresh wound seeping blood, but his eyes gleam with hatred.

A handful of lesser councilors huddle behind them, trembling.

“How dare you defile these halls, traitor prince!” Kalthos snarls, lifting the staff. “I tolerated your rebellion once, but no more. We’ll kill you on the spot and parade your carcasses for all to see.”

Nyrus’s lips curl in a sneer. “And your siren whore—she’ll scream her last breath before us. We’ll string up her body outside for the farmland to witness.”

A cold wave of fury slams through me. My shadows quiver in response, swirling across the marble floor. My heart thunders at the venom in their words, the casual threat to Lysandra. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lysandra’s jaw tense, illusions flickering dangerously around her clenched fist.

“You won’t touch her,” I say, voice trembling with rage. “I will destroy any who threaten her. I don’t care if you are the council’s elite or the Thirteen themselves.”

Sharavel scoffs, though her face betrays fatigue. “Bold. Foolish.” She flicks her hand, chanting an arcane incantation. The wards on the floor surge, arcs of violet lightning dancing across the mosaic. Takar staggers back, cursing.

Lysandra staggers too, illusions winking out momentarily. The wards react strongly to her siren presence. She clutches my forearm for balance, breath ragged. I can feel how close she is to her limit. We must break them now.

Nyrus, emboldened by the wards, lunges forward, a conjured blade of shimmering light in his hand.

He aims straight for Lysandra, intending to cut her down while her illusions flicker.

A jolt of cold terror shoots through me.

I roar, shadows coalescing around my arm, forming an ebony sword that meets his strike mid-air.

The clash reverberates, sending sparks skittering across the dais.

“You wretch,” Nyrus spits, pressing down. “You’d slaughter your own kind for a human?”

My teeth grind. “You’re not my kind,” I snarl, pushing him back with a surge of shadow. “My kind doesn’t relish murder for sport.”

He staggers, eyes blazing. Before I can finish him, Kalthos steps in, staff discharging a bolt of crackling energy.

I barely dodge aside, but the jolt grazes my shoulder, pain stabbing through me.

Lysandra shouts my name, illusions swirling again as she counters with a wave of dizzying shapes that buffet Kalthos’s senses.

He stumbles, staff dropping from his hand.

Takar seizes the opening, ramming his sword through Kalthos’s chest in a swift motion.

Kalthos stiffens, eyes wide in shock, then crumples. The staff clatters, arcane light fading. I breathe hard, shadows receding around my arm as I reel from the near-miss. One key noble is down, but the fight isn’t done.

Sharavel utters a sharp cry, lunging to grab the staff.

She whirls on me, cloak swirling, mana flaring at her fingertips.

“You will pay for Kalthos’s blood,” she hisses, voice trembling with rage.

She flicks the staff in Lysandra’s direction, arcane energy roaring to life again. “Die, siren filth?—”

But Lysandra draws a ragged breath, enthrallment spiking in her voice.

“Stop!” she commands, the single word echoing through the hall like a thunderclap.

The wards flare, trying to repel her power, but she forces it through, tears streaming down her face from the strain.

I watch in awe as Sharavel’s next spell fizzles, her expression going slack for a heartbeat.

“Finish her,” Lysandra gasps, voice cracking. I see the heartbreak in her eyes—she doesn’t want more bloodshed, but Sharavel leaves no choice.

My chest clenches, but I recall every atrocity Sharavel condoned.

Summoning my shadows one final time, I slash across the dais, striking Sharavel’s chest with a blade of living darkness.

She chokes, eyes flaring with shock, then collapses.

Her wards flicker, the staff clattering away.

A hush falls, shattered only by the ragged breathing of orchard rebels behind us.

Two key nobles down—Kalthos and Sharavel. That leaves Nyrus still alive, anger twisting his features. He staggers upright, arcane blade forming again in his hand. “You’ll regret this, Vaeranthe. You and your siren queen.” The sneer in his voice is laced with pure hatred.

He lunges for Lysandra, ignoring the orchard rebels who close in.

I force my battered body between them, parrying his blade with a last-second swirl of shadow.

My arms ache, sweat stinging my eyes. He’s faster than before, desperation fueling him.

Our blades clash, sparks dancing around us.

Lysandra tries to channel illusions to help, but the wards still flicker, interfering with her power.

Her illusions fade as quickly as she summons them, leaving me to hold Nyrus off alone.

His blade presses mine down, the magical force crackling. “You’d give up your nobility for a worthless creature?” he spits, eyes wild.