Page 16 of Claimed In Darkness

16

ZEPHIRAN

L ord Orvian always smells of expensive cologne and rotting ambition.

He stands before me in the candlelit opulence of the masquerade hall, swirling a goblet of wine in his gloved hand as if he has already won. His pale lips curve around the rim, a mocking smirk hidden beneath the mask of a gentleman.

But I see the hunger in his eyes.

Not for the wine.

For her.

For what is mine.

Naira stands at my side, wrapped in the midnight blue silk I forced her into, her exposed collarbones gleaming like sacrificial marble. The silver collar rests against her throat, a declaration, a brand, a dare to anyone who covets her.

Orvian watches her, long and slow, like a man inspecting a weapon before he buys it.

I grip the chain in my hand, the metal cool against my palm, but the tension in my fingers makes it burn like iron fresh from the forge.

The noble lifts his gaze, tilting his head with the kind of indulgence that makes my teeth itch. He wants me to react.

I will. But it has to wait.

"You have a rare creature on your hands, Zephiran," he murmurs, taking a sip of his wine. "Most humans are broken by now. Yet this one—" his gaze flicks to Naira, predatory interest coiling in his voice, "—still has some fire left."

Naira doesn’t flinch under his stare, but I see it—the way her hands move slightly, itching for a blade she no longer carries.

Orvian notices too. He chuckles. "I wonder if you’ve tamed her at all."

I step closer. Just enough to remind him of where she stands.

"Careful," I murmur, the edge in my voice as smooth as steel. "You might get burned."

He exhales a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "How selfish you are, my friend. Hoarding such treasures all for yourself."

The word friend is an insult coming from him.

We are not friends. We have never been.

He is about to remind me why.

Orvian sets his goblet down, waving over one of his attendants. A robed figure approaches, silent, carrying a black velvet box.

When the lid is lifted, the air around us shifts.

Magic thrums through in the distance between us, thick and ancient, the stench of something dark and powerful spilling into the candlelight. The relic inside glows faintly—not like the one I seek, but something different. Something more… feral.

Something made for war.

A ring, forged of blackened bone and silver, its surface inscribed with a script older than the High Council itself.

I recognize it instantly.

The Ring of Zarethun.

Power.

Boundless. Unfathomable.

Any sane Dark Elf would take this offer without hesitation.

Orvian sees the recognition flicker across my face. His smirk sharpens. "For her."

The words cut through the din of the masquerade like a blade to the gut.

My fingers tighten around the chain.

He leans in slightly, his voice a whisper edged with amusement. "You could have it, you know. A relic of pure destruction. Just think of what you could do with it."

He is aware.

He knows how valuable it is, how even the High Council does not possess magic like this.

With that ring, I could bend entire armies to my will, carve my name into the bones of history, make my father’s rule look like a child’s game of chess.

I could end this world and build a new one atop its ashes.

Yet, I do not move.

I feel Nairastare burning into the side of my face.

She doesn’t understand what he’s offering, not truly. But she knows it’s something I shouldn’t refuse.

Orvian sees my hesitation. He pushes further, voice silk-smooth. "Come now, Zephiran. A slave is replaceable. A ring like this?" He gestures at the artifact, voice curling with persuasion. "Once in a lifetime."

I should take it. Every cell of my body screams for me to have it.

But when I glance at Naira—when I see the way she refuses to look away, refuses to bow, refuses to fucking break—I realize something.

It is not a choice.

It never was.

I turn back to Orvian, and the expression on his face shifts just slightly.

He knows my answer before I speak it.

"She is not for sale."

The tension thickens. Everyone in this hall goes rigid.

Orvian lifts a brow, though there is no true surprise in his eyes. "Not even for this?"

I release the chain, reach forward, and slam the box shut.

"No."

A beat of silence.

He laughs, slow and disbelieving. "You’re either a fool or a liar."

I raise my chin slightly, lips curling in a slow, dangerous smile. "Perhaps I’m both."

The amusement lingers, but there’s something else now. Something calculating.

He knows what I’ve just admitted.

The High Council knows it too.

The whole fucking court sees it now.

Naira is not just a slave. She is a weakness.

A very, very dangerous one.

One my father can exploit. Maybe I can still use this to my advantage.

Orvian steps back, shaking his head. "A shame." He picks up his goblet again, swirling the wine once more, the flickering candlelight making it look like blood. "That ring would have suited you."

“Well, you should be careful. The High Council will not want you sitting on that one,” I say, mocking him.

Orvian stiffens. There it is. I see the glimpse of the coward trying to be someting else. He might just die before the sun rises for the next day.

He holds my gaze for a moment longer, as if expecting me to change my mind.

So, with one last lingering glance at Naira, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, the offer vanishing with him.

I exhale through my nose, slow and steady.

The moment is over.

But the consequences have just begun.

Nairavoice slices through my thoughts, quiet but edged with something unreadable. "You really are a fool."

I shift my gaze to her, fingers twitching at my side. "Watch your tongue, little fox."

She doesn’t look away. "You just threw away ultimate power. For what?"

For you.

The thought is sharp, unspoken, unbearable.

I refuse to give her the satisfaction of hearing it.

Instead, I lift the chain again, tugging her a step forward.

The movement drags her flush against me, the heat of her body seeping into mine, burning me. "Careful, pet," I murmur, voice silk and steel. "You’re starting to sound like you care."

Her breath shudders, but she masks it well.

She leans in slightly, lips nearly brushing my throat as she whispers, "You are nothing but a fool in fancy robes."

She steps away, leaving me standing alone with the implications of a choice I never should have made.