Page 43

LYSANDRA

I never imagined that victory could taste so bittersweet.

We’ve fled Pyrthos under the rosy flush of dawn, the walls and ramparts shrinking behind us with every hoofbeat.

Though the Great Hall confrontation shattered the Dark Elf council’s immediate power, it hasn’t freed me from the ghosts whispering in my mind.

My illusions have faded, and my siren voice slumbers again, yet their echoes linger, reminding me what I did in that final stand—and how, with a few words, I warped the will of living beings to keep us safe.

We ride across rolling farmland, a swath of orchard enclaves and scattered homesteads.

The orchard rebels follow in uneven lines behind us.

Some limp, wounded from the skirmish. A few carry stretchers, carefully transporting those who fell victim to the council’s last onslaught.

Dark Elf loyalists—Xelith’s men—remain at the rear, eyes peeled for any sign of pursuit.

The friction between orchard fighters and exiled Dark Elves simmers, though they no longer glare at each other with open hostility.

We’ve proven we need one another to stand against the council’s tyranny.

Our blood, spilled on Pyrthos’s marble floors, cements that fragile unity.

I clutch my mare’s reins, shoulders stiff with fatigue.

My illusions earlier drained every reserve I had.

My enthrallment left me with a throbbing headache, one that pulses at the base of my skull.

Perhaps it’s the cost of channeling that raw, forbidden sirenblood so fiercely.

Each time I recall the blank stares of those enthralled guards, a chill crawls down my spine.

I forced them to surrender, to drop their weapons, or they would have killed us.

But do I dare accept that moral compromise so easily?

A breeze ruffles my hair. Overhead, the sun climbs, warming the fields but offering no comfort to my tangled thoughts.

I exhale slowly, trying to push aside the guilt that gnaws at my conscience.

We had no choice. The council forced my hand.

If we had hesitated or balked at the final step, none of us would be alive right now.

A rider appears at my side—Tali, an orchard rebel with a bandage across her arm.

She and I first crossed paths in a farmland skirmish months ago.

Her expression brims with cautious respect.

“Lysandra,” she begins, voice subdued by exhaustion.

“How far do we go before we rest? Some are near collapse.”

I ease my mare closer, scanning the lines of battered fighters behind us. “A few miles more,” I answer quietly. “We can’t risk halting too close to Pyrthos. If the council regroups, we need enough distance to either defend ourselves or vanish.”

She nods, glancing at the horizon. “All right. I’ll pass the word, but hurry if we can.

” She taps her horse into a trot, heading back along the column to relay instructions.

I watch her leave, chest heavy. It’s always a balancing act: push too hard, we lose the wounded.

Stop too soon, the council’s outriders might catch us unprepared.

I guide my horse forward, drifting in the direction where Xelith rides.

He’s speaking with Takar, his second-in-command, while half a dozen loyal Dark Elves keep a perimeter.

A pang hits my chest at the sight of him.

The memory of our last stand in the Great Hall flickers across my mind: him unleashing lethal shadows, me shaping illusions that turned the tide of battle.

He’s given up everything—his birthright, his people’s favor—just to stand by me.

He could have surrendered me to them at any point and reclaimed his throne.

Instead, he carved his own path, choosing me over all else.

I slow as I approach, letting him finish conferring with Takar.

The older soldier salutes, then steers his mount back to the rearguard.

Xelith notices me, mouth curving in the faintest smile.

There’s fatigue in the set of his shoulders, bruises marring his obsidian skin, but a fierce glow lingers in his silver eyes.

He falls in step beside me, guiding his stallion to match my mare’s pace. “How do you feel?” he asks softly, flicking his gaze over my form. “You haven’t spoken much since we left the fortress.”

I release a shaky breath, trying to find words for the tempest roiling in me.

“I… I’m tired,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck.

“But that’s not all. I keep replaying what I did—enthralling those soldiers, forcing them to kneel.

I know it saved us, yet it feels… wrong to use that power so freely. ”

His expression softens, and he reaches across the narrow gap to briefly squeeze my wrist. “We had no choice. They would have killed you, Lysandra. Your illusions and enthrallment were the only things that kept them from overwhelming us.” A bitter note weaves into his tone.

“The council left no room for mercy, so we claimed the upper hand. Don’t let guilt consume you. ”

I swallow hard. He’s right, in a way, but the shame still clings. “I just… I never wanted to become what they accuse me of being. A monster who wields power to break minds.” My chest tightens. “I worry if I keep using enthrallment, I’ll forget the line between necessity and cruelty.”

He nods, brow furrowing. “Your conscience is exactly what keeps you from crossing that line. You did only what was needed to protect all of us—human or Dark Elf.” For a moment, vulnerability flickers in his gaze. “And I’m grateful.”

A wave of warmth surges through my chest, battling the lingering guilt. I nod, letting out a shaky exhale. “Thank you.”

We ride in companionable silence for a while, the farmland rolling past us in soft greens and browns.

Occasional orchard trees break up the horizon, their twisted branches reaching skyward.

The orchard rebels and exiled Dark Elves form two uneven columns that merge when the road narrows.

Over time, the tension that once crackled between them has eased into mutual wariness.

Even so, none of us forget that we’re fugitives now, wanted by the fortress for daring to stand against the council.

“Xelith,” I murmur after a long pause, voice soft. “You gave up everything for me. Your status, your people’s acceptance?—”

He cuts me off with a quiet laugh. “Not everything.” His tone gentles. “I have you. I have Takar and those men who remain loyal to what my house once stood for, before the council twisted it into something vile. That’s more than I had under the council’s thumb.”

Emotion constricts my throat. “But your father’s legacy?—”

His jaw tightens, eyes clouding with an old hurt.

“His legacy was built on subjugation and cruelty. I believed in it once, blindly. Yet the day I saw what they did to humans—treating them like chattel—I couldn’t remain that man.

Meeting you only hastened the break. I realized there’s no honor in ruling if you’re no better than the oppressor you despise. ”

I blink, a tear escaping despite my attempts to stay composed. “Thank you,” I say again, softer this time. “I don’t deserve it, but I… I’m so glad you didn’t hand me over, even when the council demanded my head.”

He reaches out, palm brushing my cheek to wipe away that lone tear. “You deserve a life free from chains—both literal and figurative. I want that for you. For us.” The sincerity in his gaze almost cracks me open. I can’t leave him behind, not ever.

Eventually, we crest a low hill, spotting a shallow ravine that cuts across the farmland.

Takar signals for the column to halt in the ravine’s shelter.

We can break for water, maybe find a moment’s respite.

The orchard rebels slip from their saddles, groaning at stiff limbs.

I do the same, nearly stumbling as my feet hit solid ground.

My body screams for rest, illusions still flickering in the periphery of my vision whenever I blink.

Xelith dismounts beside me. The moment we’re both on the ground, he slides an arm around my waist, steadying me.

It’s more intimacy than some orchard fighters are used to seeing from a Dark Elf and a human, but they politely avert their eyes.

His closeness washes a wave of relief over me.

He’s here, unashamed, letting all witness that we stand together.

If there was ever doubt about how far we’ve come, it’s banished now.

We lead the horses into the ravine, helping the wounded find shade.

Our meager supplies run low, but a small stream trickles nearby, enough to fill waterskins.

While Takar organizes a watch, Xelith and I help distribute rations.

The orchard rebels accept the tasks quietly, some offering shy smiles in my direction.

I guess enthralling an entire fortress can earn a certain awe, though it makes me uneasy.

“Here,” Xelith murmurs, pressing a half loaf of stale bread into my hands. “Eat something.”

I manage a faint smile, nibbling at the bread.

The dryness sticks in my throat, but hunger gnaws at my belly, so I force it down.

Once finished, I wipe my mouth on my sleeve, then sink onto a rock by the stream’s edge.

My reflection shimmers in the water—a gaunt face, hair unkempt, eyes shadowed with fatigue.

I can scarcely believe I once thought captivity was my worst fate.

A presence settles beside me. I glance over.

Xelith lowers himself onto the rock, wincing at the motion.

He clasps his hands between his knees, studying me with quiet concern.

“We have to keep moving soon,” he says, voice low so only I hear.

“Takar spotted fresh tracks north of here—likely outriders from Pyrthos. They might be scouting or preparing an ambush.”