Page 47

XELITH

I cradle a torch in my left hand, the flickering flame illuminating ancient stone and creeping moss.

The cavern walls loom around me, damp with water that seeps from the cracks overhead, forming tiny rivulets that trickle into shallow pools.

Despite the lingering chill, a sense of quiet safety envelops me—something I haven’t felt since I abandoned the fortress.

This hidden refuge, discovered by our orchard scouts, lies deep beneath a rugged hillside far from Pyrthos.

It’s no lavish palace, but after weeks of riding, fighting, and fleeing, the dark stillness comforts me.

I walk in slow, measured steps, one ear tuned to the echoes of orchard rebels setting up camp in the adjoining chamber.

We’ve carved a modest life down here in the winding cave system, at least for now.

A handful of torches line the corridor, revealing niches hollowed out by time.

A few orchard folk store provisions in the deeper recesses, away from prying eyes.

The low murmur of conversation wafts from the main cavern: humans and exiled Dark Elves sharing whatever meager rations we salvaged during the trek.

I still can’t believe we’ve come this far.

The orchard enclaves—once scattered, cowering in the farmland—follow me.

Not because I claim noble birth but because Lysandra standing beside me, bridging the gap between us.

My father would never have imagined his son’s legacy existing in such a place—a damp cave system, forging alliances with humans.

But I no longer care for my father’s vision.

The only approval I seek is Lysandra’s—she, who shattered the council’s illusions about who is strong and who is prey.

My lips curl in a faint smile as I recall how she enthralled half the fortress to protect us.

I still feel an odd thrill at the memory of her voice resonating with lethal power.

She wields a strength that rivals any Dark Elf mage I’ve known.

I round a bend in the corridor, passing orchard rebels perched on rock ledges, their bedrolls laid out. A few blink up at me with guarded respect. One dips his head. “Prince Xelith,” he murmurs, adjusting a makeshift bandage on his leg. “You brought more torches?”

I nod. “Takar will bring them soon.” My free hand gestures at the dripping stalactites overhead. “We’ll keep the fires minimal, though. Don’t want too much smoke down here.”

He grunts understanding, returning to the quiet conversation with his neighbor.

I walk on, torchlight dancing along uneven walls.

My mind drift to the orchard enclaves we passed on our way here, how they watched from tree lines as we led a battered but undefeated column.

They saw Lysandra and me, riding together, exiled from the fortress we once cursed.

A swirl of warmth settles in my chest at the thought of Lysandra.

She’s the reason I keep pushing, the reason I let go of any illusions about reclaiming the fortress throne.

She’s the reason I see myself not as a disgraced noble but as a leader forging something new, something better. And I want her at my side—always.

I slip into the main cavern, a broad chamber with a vaulted stone ceiling.

Torches ring the periphery, casting shifting shadows on rugged rock.

Stalagmites jut from the floor, forming natural partitions where orchard folk have laid out small sleeping areas.

Amid them, Takar and a band of exiled Dark Elves talk quietly, glancing up as I enter.

The hush that follows my arrival never sits easily with me. I recall the days when any silence meant cunning or subterfuge in the fortress halls. Here, though, it’s more a cautious respect. I step forward, addressing them with a low voice. “Any sign of pursuit?”

Takar stands, crossing an arm over his chest in a salute. “None, my prince. Our scouts confirm no outriders within a day’s ride. Seems the council is reeling after we stormed Pyrthos. They might regroup, but for now, we’re safe.”

Relief loosens my shoulders. I exhale, noticing how orchard rebels exchange hopeful looks. “Then we’ll remain here a few days,” I say, “long enough to rest, plan, and see what the orchard enclaves want from us.”

A murmur of agreement spreads. Takar adds, “I’ll finalize watch rotations, but you might want to speak to Lysandra. She’s just beyond that passage.” He gestures to a narrow tunnel that slopes downward. “Seems she found a quieter chamber for us.”

Heat warms my face at the phrase for us .

Takar’s not subtle, but he’s right. Lysandra and I share an unspoken closeness that has become the linchpin of this entire alliance.

I nod in thanks, ignoring the curious smirks from a few orchard rebels.

Then I slip away, following the path Takar indicated.

The tunnel winds deeper, torchlight flickering over slick stone.

My heart quickens when I hear her voice, soft, speaking to someone else.

I turn a corner and see her crouched near a small subterranean pool fed by a trickling waterfall.

She’s talking with Tali, the orchard fighter who joined us after fleeing from the fortress.

Tali stands, shoulders tense, while Lysandra offers a comforting hand. I arrive just as Tali says, “—everyone looks to you and Xelith now. The orchard enclaves can’t unify otherwise. So don’t abandon us, all right?”

Lysandra gives a reassuring smile, voice hushed with compassion. “We won’t. We intend to help build something stable here.” Then her gaze flicks up, noticing me. Tali turns, startled, then exhales in relief.

“Ah,” Tali mutters, dipping her head. “Prince Xelith.”

I offer a nod of acknowledgment, scanning Tali’s anxious expression. “All is well, I hope?”

Tali nods, though worry shadows her eyes. “Just concerns about how long we can stay hidden. We orchard folk aren’t used to living in caves. But I’ll share your words. Thank you, Lysandra.” She bows lightly, then hurries off, leaving us alone in the quiet chamber.

Lysandra stands, brushing dust from her trousers. The subterranean waterfall trickles behind her, the sound oddly soothing. My torchlight glints off the water, painting her face in soft gold. She exhales, meeting my gaze. “We’re forging a new path, but they’re scared. I can’t blame them.”

I approach, snuffing out my torch in the waterfall’s basin, letting darkness settle except for the faint glow from a lone lantern behind her. “I know,” I say, voice low. “We can’t promise absolute safety. But we can’t let them live in constant flight either.”

She nods, crossing her arms. The hush lengthens, the drip of water a gentle backdrop.

“I keep thinking about what’s next,” she admits quietly.

“We shattered the fortress’s leadership, but that doesn’t free the farmland entirely.

Other fortress lords might rise, or more exiled nobles might try to fill the power vacuum.

This alliance we’re building is fragile. ”

I study her face—exhaustion and resolve etched into every line. My chest tightens with an inexplicable surge of longing. “It is fragile,” I concede, stepping nearer. “But we have each other. That’s no small thing.”

She looks up at me, and in that glow, I see vulnerability mingling with something deeper—affection, perhaps even love. My breath catches. I recall the orchard stable, the orchard illusions, the stolen moments of intimacy that revealed how entwined we’ve become.

Gently, I slide my hand to her shoulder, the damp air chilling my skin.

“I’ve been thinking,” I murmur, voice trembling with anticipation.

“All we have is each other now—truly. The orchard enclaves rely on us, yes, but beyond that, we… we rely on one another. No fortress court awaits me, no safe harbor for you if we part. We’re forging a life from scratch. ”

Her gaze flickers with curiosity, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

“Yes,” she breathes, stepping a fraction closer.

“I can’t imagine going back to the days when we were so distant.

When I thought you might kill me, or I might kill you.

” A hollow laugh escapes her. “Now I can’t picture facing any threat without you. ”

My heart hammers. I recall Takar’s half-joking mention weeks ago about a spiritual ceremony that ties souls together—an ancient union sometimes practiced among Dark Elves.

Usually reserved for noble houses forging alliances, it’s rumored to merge magical essences.

My father once scorned it as archaic, but now it resonates in my mind like a distant drumbeat.

Would Lysandra even consider such a bond—sirens and Dark Elves forging a magic-laced union?

I swallow, nerves twisting in my gut. “We’re building a life on the run, yes, but we can shape it however we choose,” I say, voice husky. “I… I want you as my equal. Not just in battle, or as a symbol for orchard enclaves, but truly. In every sense.”

She draws a soft breath, studying me. “Xelith, I… I feel the same. But how do we formalize that? We have no fortress chapels or priests we trust. The orchard enclaves have no single tradition. And the sirens—my ancestors—no one recalls their rituals.”

My pulse leaps. She’s not rejecting me. Hope flares.

“Dark Elves have an older rite,” I venture, words tumbling out.

“One not used often, especially after the council took power. It’s said to bind souls as one—magically, physically, spiritually.

A vow that surpasses standard marriage, forging a bond the Thirteen themselves can’t break. ”

Her eyes widen, illusions flickering at her fingertips, betraying her emotional surge. “A soul bond?” she whispers, voice unsteady. “I’ve heard rumors, but I never thought you’d… we’d…”