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I bark a hollow laugh, teeth gritted. “She’s worth more than your entire council combined,” I retort, voice shaking with fury. My shadow blade pulses, but the wards hamper me, siphoning some of my magic. I can’t summon a lethal surge without risking meltdown. One final strike. That’s all I need.

Nyrus twists, aiming a slash at Lysandra even as we lock swords.

I see his plan—try to circumvent me. A hot wave of terror floods me.

I can’t let him reach her. Summoning every scrap of resolve, I shift my stance, letting him overswing, then pivot inside his guard.

The angle of my shadow blade changes, driving the edge into his ribs.

He gasps, eyes bulging. Blood slicks the dais as my blade severs through arcane energy and bone. For a heartbeat, he clutches my shoulder, mouth opening in silent rage. Then he collapses, the conjured blade winking out. Silence drapes over us like a shroud.

I stagger, leaning on the dais for support.

Lysandra rushes forward, illusions dissipating entirely.

The orchard rebels crowd behind her, weapons raised in case more guards appear.

But at last, no new wave of soldiers emerges.

The Great Hall stands wrecked—shattered columns, scorch marks from spells, bodies of council loyalists. My breath rasps in my ears.

One lesser councilor scrambles behind an overturned bench. Takar levels his sword at him. The orchard rebels form a ring, and a hush settles, broken only by the drip of blood and moans of wounded.

“Is that all?” Lysandra whispers, voice raw with heartbreak. She glances at the fallen nobles—Kalthos, Sharavel, Nyrus—the triumvirate who shaped so much cruelty. Now lying still.

I manage a shaky nod. “They tried to kill you. I—” My throat constricts. “I couldn’t let them.”

She brushes a trembling hand over my cheek, her eyes shining with a mix of relief and sorrow. “I know.” For a moment, the exhaustion in her face mirrors my own. She turns to the orchard rebels. “We have to retreat. Reinforcements might still come.”

One orchard fighter, bleeding from a gash in his thigh—steps forward, voice unsteady. “We’ve scouted the corridors. Some guards fled or locked themselves in side wings. Others surrendered. We hold the Great Hall for the moment. But the fortress is vast.”

Takar inclines his head. “We can’t maintain this position. If the entire garrison regroups, we’re doomed.”

I clench my jaw, scanning the broken hall. We’ve shattered the central council, but they still have archers, mages, reserves. Lysandra’s illusions and enthrallment are spent. My shadows flicker weakly around my hands, nearly drained. We can’t fight another wave.

“All orchard rebels, gather the wounded. We leave through the main gate,” I command, voice echoing. “Anyone who surrenders, let them live. No more needless deaths.” We’ve killed the key nobles who threatened Lysandra. That was enough blood.

Amid the wreckage, I spot movement from a council guard pinned under debris, eyes wide with fear.

My heart twists in bitterness. This fortress was once my inheritance, but I feel no kinship for these people who served a monstrous regime.

Even so, we won’t slaughter them if they yield.

We need to be better than the council ever was.

“Go,” Lysandra urges the orchard rebels. “We can’t hold this place. The farmland calls. Let the fortress see we aren’t here to rule them—only to end their oppression.”

They nod, forming squads to gather the fallen. Takar and a few loyal Dark Elves keep watch, though none of the fortress guards appear eager to continue fighting. With Sharavel, Kalthos, and Nyrus dead, leadership collapses. The hush that remains is almost eerie, a ragged calm after the storm.

I limp down the dais steps, Lysandra at my side. My ribs ache from a strike earlier; every step jolts. She presses a supportive hand to my shoulder, illusions extinguished now. We exchange a brief, weary smile—we survived.

The orchard rebels herd us out, back through corridors piled with debris.

Bodies lie scattered, but far fewer than I feared.

The enthrallment and illusions prevented a widespread massacre.

Still, my stomach churns. So many lives lost in this final confrontation.

We can’t dwell on regret if we want to build a better future.

At last, we spill into the fortress courtyard. The early sun glints off broken stone and battered gates. Many orchard fighters stand guard, bows ready, scanning for threats. But no large force emerges from the fortress’s interior. The stench of blood mixes with the crisp morning air.

“We must flee,” Takar reiterates, voice urgent. “If any loyal general or mage is still hidden, they might rally the garrison within hours.”

Lysandra inhales, turning to me. Her dark hair clings to her sweat-damp skin.

She’s exhausted, illusions spent, siren voice raw.

Yet her spirit remains unbroken. “We did what we came to do, Xelith. We confronted them, killed those who would never relent. The council is fractured, if not destroyed. Now we have to survive.”

I nod, catching my breath. The orchard rebels bustle around us, leading out their wounded.

My own soldiers, battered but victorious, wait for orders.

The entire courtyard bristles with tension.

“We ride for the farmland,” I say, pitching my voice so all can hear.

“The orchard enclaves, the free territory—anywhere the council’s shadow isn’t absolute.

We regroup, heal, and guard what we’ve won. ”

A ragged cheer rises, though it’s subdued by grief and fatigue.

We mount up quickly, helping the wounded onto wagons or the backs of docile fortress horses.

Lysandra swings onto her mare, face pale, shoulders drooping.

I guide my own stallion beside her, ignoring the stabbing pain in my ribs. We can’t show weakness yet.

“Head south!” Takar calls, spurring his horse. “Move, move, before the fortress wards react!”

We thunder out the shattered gate, orchard banners fluttering in the morning light.

I glance back only once, seeing the fortress doors open wide behind us, motionless guards watching our departure.

Perhaps they realize they can’t muster a cohesive defense in time, or perhaps they fear Lysandra’s illusions and enthrallment too deeply.

Either way, we pass from Pyrthos’s threshold into the open roads beyond.

As soon as we reach a safe distance, the adrenaline that kept me moving begins to wane. My arms feel leaden from channeling so much shadow magic. Lysandra’s illusions flicker in her eyes, but she maintains a stoic face. Takar falls in beside me, relief etched in his features.

“My prince,” he murmurs, bowing his head. “We did it. The council’s leadership is in ruins. The orchard enclaves won’t be cowering anymore.”

I manage a weary smile. “We’re traitors now, Takar. They’ll brand us across Protheka. But yes, we shattered them enough for a chance.”

He nods grimly, eyes scanning the horizon. “A chance is all we asked for.”

Lysandra gives me a faint smile, overhearing. “We’ll take that chance. The farmland stands with us. We can ward off any smaller forces until the orchard enclaves unify.”

I sense the hush that follows, as orchard rebels and Dark Elf soldiers exchange uncertain glances.

They know we’re forging a new path—a life on the run, or a life standing at the fringes of a war that could engulf Protheka.

But we stand firm together. No more illusions that we can simply vanish.

Our victory here cements us as enemies of any who side with the old regime.

We ride for hours, pushing past farmland boundaries, ignoring our weariness. Eventually, as dusk approaches, we halt near a half-collapsed barn. The orchard rebels declare it safe enough for a night’s rest. We dismount, men scattering to gather water, treat wounds, and post sentries.

I slip off my horse, nearly collapsing from the jolt in my ribs. Lysandra is at my side in an instant, illusions flickering around her fingertips. “You’re hurt,” she says softly, concern tightening her voice.

I force a grimace that might pass for a smile. “Just a bruised rib or two. You’re the one who poured your soul into enthrallment.”

She huffs a tired laugh. “We’re both half dead.”

I press my forehead against hers in a fleeting gesture of solace, ignoring the curious gazes of those around us. “Come. We should rest.”

Inside the barn, it’s dim and musty, but at least it’s shelter from prying eyes.

Takar arranges guards outside, ensuring we won’t be ambushed.

Lysandra and I find a corner away from the wounded orchard fighters, who need space to tend each other.

We slump to the straw-littered floor. My entire body aches.

Hers, too, by the look of her trembling arms.

Silence drapes over us, broken only by the distant hush of night insects. After a time, she exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “We killed them, Xelith—Sharavel, Kalthos, Nyrus. I never wanted so much blood, but they gave us no choice.”

I nod, throat tight. “They would’ve killed you on sight. I had to.” My chest constricts, remembering the final blow. “We can’t regret it if we want to build something new.”

She leans against my shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. “Still feels surreal. I used illusions and enthrallment on a scale I never imagined. We showed them we’re not helpless.” A small, wry smile curves her lips. “But we’re fugitives now.”

I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her against me. The straw crinkles beneath us. “Yes. Fugitives with orchard enclaves at our backs. We’re no small force. We might even carve out real territory if the farmland unites.”