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I clamp down on every protective mental barrier I have.

My head pounds under the strain, forcing me to lock eyes with him in a silent mental duel.

He narrows his gaze, evidently feeling my resistance.

Sweat beads on my skin, partly from the irritant’s sting and partly from fighting off his psychic push.

He withdraws with a musing sigh. “Interesting. Your mental wards are far from novice level. You’re full of surprises.”

I say nothing, but inside, relief mingles with defiance.

My psionic defenses still stand, though the wards in these walls hamper me from striking back as I’d like.

Zareth steps back, discarding the cloth into the bowl with an annoyed flick.

He’s probably realizing that a direct mind assault won’t be as easy as he hoped.

He turns, motions to Sathran. “Carry on with standard interrogation protocols. But keep her conscious. I have a feeling she’ll be more entertaining if she has her wits about her.” He casts me a final glance, eyes gleaming. “Don’t expire too soon, dear purna. I’m not finished playing.”

Then he’s gone, robes sweeping behind him as he exits. I bite back a torrent of insults. Exhaustion clings to my limbs, but the moment I see Sathran stepping forward with that rod, I brace myself again.

He circles me, his footsteps slow and deliberate. “The highborn likes you, so I’ll try not to ruin his fun,” he remarks, a sneer twisting his lips. “But I’ll have mine.” He presses the rod against my ribs, sending a crackling surge that arches my spine. A choked cry escapes before I can swallow it.

My breath comes in ragged bursts. Images dance behind my eyelids—Ai’s frightened face, the note from the Red Purna that led me into this hell, the cold fury in Vaelith’s gaze as he pinned me.

Fear tangles with fury, fueling a spark of defiance that refuses to die.

I tighten my jaw, determined to show them nothing more.

Sathran continues for what feels like hours, alternating jolts of that electric rod with questions. “Name. Affiliations. The girl’s location. The Red Purna’s plans.”

I grit out no more than curses or stony silence. Eventually, my legs buckle, and I hang from the cuffs, panting. My eyes slide shut, fighting the spinning in my head. If I pass out, they’ll likely revive me just to start again.

A clang behind me signals the door opening. A new voice enters, deep and brisk. “Enough, soldier. The council wants her in one piece for the hearing.”

I open my eyes to see Commander Vaelith standing in the doorway, flanked by two guards.

He looks the same as in that alley—tall, imposing, obsidian skin reflecting the torch’s glow.

The silver war brands on his forearm catch the light.

His stare slices toward Sathran. “Unchain her. The court demands her presence.”

Sathran bristles but doesn’t dare disobey.

He sets the rod aside and fumbles with the cuffs overhead.

Relief floods my limbs as the iron shackles release.

I collapse onto my knees, arms screaming from overuse, yet I force my spine to remain as straight as possible. I glare up at Vaelith, breath ragged.

He meets my gaze, expression unreadable, though I detect the faintest flicker of tension around his jaw.

He’s wearing black leather armor with plate accents, a sword at his side.

Strands of dark hair brush the nape of his neck, streaked with arcane silver.

Something about him exudes order and discipline, a stark contrast to Zareth’s sadistic flair or Sathran’s brutish approach.

He gestures to his guards. “Bring her. Don’t let her escape.” His voice is taut. “And be mindful if she tries to conjure anything.”

The guards reach for me, hauling me upright.

My legs nearly give out, but I refuse to show further weakness.

One guard clamps new cuffs around my wrists, this time a single chain that I can hold at my waist. The second guard takes me by the elbow, steering me out of the cell.

I lift my chin, letting the battered remains of my pride radiate in my glare.

If they think these new restraints will tame me, they’re mistaken.

We shuffle through a dim corridor lined with more cells, the air stale with stale sweat and despair.

Vaelith walks ahead, footsteps echoing in measured intervals.

The tension between us simmers, a silent clash of wills.

Each stride sends a jolt of pain through my battered muscles, but I maintain pace.

I watch him carefully, noticing how his broad shoulders flex beneath his armor, how his posture speaks of unwavering control.

He’s everything I’ve come to despise about dark elves—arrogant, commanding, certain that all must bow.

We emerge into a corridor of polished stone, lit by flickering sconces that illuminate ornate murals depicting Orthani’s conquests.

The images show dark elves towering over humans, subjugating them in a swirl of battlefield carnage.

My stomach roils with disgust. The next panel shows dark elves defeating monstrous beasts with savage efficiency.

Not a single mention of the purna, though.

Perhaps they prefer to keep that piece of history hidden.

Two massive doors loom ahead, carved with the city’s sigil.

They swing open at Vaelith’s command, revealing a grand chamber.

Rows of seats line the walls, filled with dark elf onlookers dressed in finery.

At the far end stands a raised dais where three individuals in regal attire preside.

I spot Zareth on a side bench, tapping a slender baton against his leg.

He offers me a smug half-smile. Fury coils in my gut.

A hush falls over the assembly. I’m shoved forward, steps echoing on the polished floor.

My chain rattles, and I sense the weight of countless eyes upon me—some curious, others hungry for spectacle.

This is Orthani’s inner court, the apex of their authority.

My attention snaps to the dais where a stately woman in a black gown, her hair an elegant swirl of midnight, gazes down with thinly veiled contempt.

To her left stands a stern figure whose embroidered cloak denotes high status.

To her right, a scribe or official flipping through parchment.

Vaelith halts beside me, passing the chain to another guard. Then he steps back, posture rigid, as though washing his hands of me. My wrists ache, but I keep my chin raised. If they think I’ll cower, they’re delusional.

The stately woman on the dais speaks first. “You are the purna that dared to enter Orthani’s streets, inciting chaos.”

My lips slips into a bitter smile. “Call it what you will. You left me little choice.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’ve already been questioned in the dungeons, I see. Yet you withhold vital information regarding the child’s whereabouts. This is not wise.”

Zareth leans forward, voice silken. “She was quite stubborn. I suspect she’s holding secrets on behalf of the Red Purna. We should press her further.”

Before I can hurl an insult at him, the woman silences us by lifting a hand. “We have heard enough. The city cannot abide a rogue purna in our midst, especially one who disrupts order.”

Commander Vaelith steps forward, bowing slightly. “With respect, my lords, she can be useful. Her power is considerable.”

The mention of me being “useful” makes my jaw tighten. I glare at him, though he avoids meeting my eyes. The woman taps her fingers on the armrest of her chair. “Explain, Commander.”

Vaelith straightens. “We discovered she wields advanced psionic defenses. She also demonstrates skill in infiltration. If we harness that potential, she could serve Orthani rather than rot in a dungeon. King Rython has need of specialists.”

I bristle at the very notion. Serve Orthani? The nerve. But I say nothing yet, waiting for them to reveal their hand. The stately woman exchanges a glance with the official on her left. Her expression cools. “Are you suggesting we conscript her, place her under watch?”

Vaelith inclines his head. “Yes. She is dangerous, but that danger can work in our favor if properly collared.”

My heart thuds, a furious beat. They would place a collar around my magic, chain me like a weapon. I can almost feel Zareth’s smug grin from across the room. He’d love that—his new plaything, docile and bound.

The official on the left clears his throat. “Alternatively, we can make an example by executing her. That might send a clearer message to the Red Purna.”

A hush falls. My pulse roars in my ears. There it is: the ultimatum, laid out in plain words. Serve or die. None of them mention Ai. They keep the child’s fate in the background, as if they know she’s the perfect lever to keep me in line.

Commander Vaelith glances at me, the lines of his face tight.

I can’t read whether he’s satisfied or conflicted.

Zareth steps forward, addressing the dais.

“I propose we give her one chance. If she refuses Orthani’s demands, we finalize her execution.

” He sweeps a hand in my direction. “Let it be her choice. Then no one can say we didn’t offer mercy. ”

Those words spark fresh anger in my chest. Mercy. How they twist everything. The woman on the dais dips her head. “Very well. Purna, speak. Will you serve Orthani’s cause, or face punishment?”

I lift my chin, gathering what tattered strength I have left.

My wrists ache where the metal digs into my flesh.

Pain radiates from every brand inflicted by Sathran’s rod.

The memory of Ai’s small hand gripping mine slices through me.

If I refuse, they might kill me—and Ai will be lost. The Red Purna betrayed me by sending me into this trap, so I can’t rely on them swooping in to rescue her.

But if I bow to Orthani, I become their tool.

My teeth clench. This choice is monstrous.