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Her fingers curl over mine. “It’s terrifying. But we’re free of that fortress, free of their condemning stares.” Her gaze drifts up to meet mine, warmth flickering in her eyes despite her exhaustion. “I wouldn’t want to face this war with anyone else.”

Emotion knots in my chest. We started as captor and captive, then reluctant allies, then something deeper. Now, with the council shattered, we stand truly side by side—carrying the weight of every life the orchard enclaves entrust to us.

Softly, I brush a strand of dark hair from her face. “You’re not alone anymore,” I whisper. “Nor am I.”

She exhales, leaning in until our foreheads touch.

In that quiet corner, amid dusty straw, we share a moment of gentle, exhausted closeness.

Outside, I can hear the orchard rebels lighting a small fire, cooking meager rations.

Our next steps remain uncertain. The threat of pursuit lingers, but we have each other—and that’s no small comfort.

Eventually, Lysandra’s eyes drift shut. She dozes against my shoulder, illusions flickering out entirely as she allows herself a moment of rest. I press a tender kiss to her hair, letting my own eyes close, letting the day’s horrors recede.

My ribs ache, my magic spent, but I cradle her, a fierce protectiveness thrumming in my veins.

No matter what comes next, I won’t let her face it alone.

By the time the moon hangs overhead, I awake to hushed voices outside the barn.

Lysandra still leans against me, breathing steady in sleep.

Carefully, I shift her onto a makeshift pallet of hay, wincing at the pain in my ribs.

Then I rise, stifling a groan. Takar stands at the barn’s doorway, beckoning me with a solemn look.

I follow him outside, where a small group of orchard rebels waits.

They hush their conversation as I approach.

One of them, an older man with a bandaged arm, steps forward.

“We’ve scouted the roads north of here,” he says quietly.

“No sign of immediate pursuit, but we found fresh tracks near the old orchard pass. Could be the fortress sending a cavalry detachment.”

My pulse quickens. “How many?”

He shrugs, mouth grim. “At least a score of riders, possibly more. Not enough to wipe us out if we stand our ground, but we’re too tired for another pitched battle.”

I push my hair back with a sigh. We’ve barely healed from today’s confrontation. “We should move before dawn. Head deeper into farmland territory, find better cover. We can’t risk being pinned here.”

They nod, exchanging glances. Takar mutters, “Our forces are battered. But if we push now, we might avoid the riders altogether.”

A heavy sigh escapes me. “Then let’s do it. We’ll rouse everyone in a few hours, give them minimal rest. We can’t linger.”

They agree, dispersing to prepare. I remain under the moonlight, shoulders sagging.

It never ends—flee one threat, only to face another.

But at least we shattered the council’s main leadership.

That has to count for something. We can build from that victory.

The farmland enclaves might unify, see that we are serious about their freedom.

A shuffle behind me draws my attention. I turn to find Lysandra at the barn door, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What’s happening?” she asks, voice husky.

I stride over, guiding her outside. “We suspect a cavalry detachment might be closing in. We’ll leave before dawn, put more distance between us and Pyrthos.”

She exhales, eyes flicking to the starlit horizon. “Constant flight,” she murmurs, shoulders tightening. Then she meets my gaze, a faint spark of defiance glinting through her fatigue. “We’ll make it count. We’re not running in fear—we’re building something the council can’t crush.”

A wry smile touches my lips. “Exactly.” I lift a hand to trace the bruise on her cheek.

She doesn’t flinch, leaning into my touch.

That raw vulnerability tugs at me. My thoughts stray to the day’s carnage, the final confrontation, the rush of adrenaline as I watched her enthrall or disorient so many.

She’s unstoppable—yet also heartbreakingly mortal.

“How are you feeling?” I ask softly, mindful of the orchard rebels bustling nearby.

She shrugs, half-laughing with no humor. “Like I spent every ounce of power, physically and magically. But we’re alive. That’s enough.”

I step closer, letting my forehead rest against hers, ignoring Takar’s discreet presence near the barn. “We’re more than alive,” I whisper. “We’re victorious. Even if we can’t hold the fortress, we toppled the council’s main pillars.”

Her eyes drift shut. “I hope that means fewer will die in their name.”

I rub her arms gently. “It does. They’ll be forced to reorganize, and that buys us time to unify the farmland.” I pull back, pressing a light kiss to her temple. “We’ll do it together.”

She offers a tired smile. “Always.”

The orchard rebels, noticing the lull, gather around. Takar explains our plan to depart before dawn. Lysandra and I confirm the route southward, aiming for a more secluded orchard chain where additional enclaves might hide. The orchard fighters nod, trusting Lysandra’s guidance.

With that settled, we retreat into the barn, collecting bedrolls and re-wrapping bandages.

Lysandra’s illusions have drained her to the brink, so I urge her to rest a bit longer.

She collapses on the makeshift pallet, slipping into uneasy sleep.

I settle close, ignoring the throbbing in my side.

My eyes roam the barn’s dark rafters, mind spinning with tomorrow’s dangers.

But we’re still breathing. We overcame the final council confrontation, left them reeling. I recall the image of Kalthos’s staff clattering, Sharavel’s lifeless body, Nyrus’s final snarl. Part of me mourns that it came to bloodshed, but I’d do it again to keep Lysandra safe.

Time crawls. Eventually, orchard fighters rouse us.

The hush of predawn envelops the farmland, a subtle gray light edging the horizon.

We mount up once more, bruised and exhausted, setting off into the uncharted territory beyond Pyrthos’s domain.

A hush blankets our band—victorious, yet haunted by what it cost.

As we ride, Lysandra rests her head on my shoulder, half dozing in the saddle. I guide her horse with one hand, my other palm braced on her hip, ensuring she doesn’t slip. My ribs scream with pain, but I ignore it, focusing on the warmth of her pressed against me.

We leave Pyrthos behind, official traitors to the entire Dark Elf establishment.

No illusions remain about returning to any normal life.

The farmland enclaves look to us for leadership.

The orchard rebels see Lysandra as a queen reborn, sirenblood awakened.

My loyal soldiers regard me as their exiled prince, forging a new destiny.

And so we ride, battered but unbroken. The council might muster forces to hunt us across Protheka, brand us enemies to all Dark Elves.

But we carry a spark of hope that outweighs that fear.

We tore down the fortress door, enthralled their guards, killed the worst of their tyrants—and walked away with our heads held high.

Somewhere beyond these fields, we’ll find a place to regroup, build alliances, and stand against whatever vengeance the remaining council members unleash. My jaw sets with grim resolve: let them come. I glance at Lysandra, whose eyes flutter open, meeting my gaze with quiet determination.

She lifts a hand to my cheek, expression full of fierce tenderness. “We’ll face them,” she murmurs, reading my thoughts. “We’ve done the impossible once. We’ll do it again if we must.”

I nod, guiding her horse forward. My chest aches, not just from bruises but from an overwhelming mix of relief and responsibility. “Yes,” I answer, voice low. “We stand together—forever.”

A faint smile curves her lips. “Forever,” she echoes, and for a heartbeat, I believe it wholeheartedly.

Dawn breaks fully, casting gold over the farmland as we vanish into rolling hills.

The orchard rebels flank us, Takar and the loyal Dark Elves guard our rear.

Pyrthos is behind us, the final confrontation done.

The council lies shattered or subdued for now.

And Lysandra and I ride onward—victorious, hunted, unyielding.

The horizon stretches with new possibilities.

Our story is far from over, but in this moment, with her warmth at my side and the orchard enclaves rallying behind us, I finally feel that we’ve seized our fate.

Let the council brand us monsters, traitors, or exiles.

We’ll shape Protheka’s future in the orchard’s name, forging a realm where illusions, enthrallment, and dark shadows serve not tyranny but freedom.

And so we ride, hearts pounding in unison, forging a new life on the run—unafraid, because we have each other, and that bond is stronger than any fortress’s walls.