Page 24

24

SEREN

T he ground is slick beneath me, damp with blood, some of it mine, some of it theirs.

My body shudders against the effort to stay upright, knees trembling, ribs aching from the last blow. Laughter drips from the lips of the dark elves, circling like jackals, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

They have been toying with me for what felt like hours. They captured me earlier from my first escape, bringing me to another camp.

A fresh boot connects with my stomach, sending me sprawling onto my side. Pain lances through my ribs, sharp and relentless. Dust and sweat coat my skin, turning the warmth of my own blood sticky against my back.

“Still not broken,” one of them muses, crouching near my head. His fingers dig into my jaw, forcing my chin up, making me meet his crimson gaze. “You really are a stubborn little thing.”

Another voice, this one taunting. “Shall we see how long that lasts?”

Fingers tighten in my hair, wrenching my head back, exposing my throat. My heartbeat thrums against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm that refuses to slow.

I will not beg.

Not for them. Not for mercy.

A fist collides with my cheek, sending my head snapping sideways, the iron taste of blood coating my tongue. Darkness flirts at the edges of my vision, beckoning, whispering.

No.

Not like this.

The elf at my side clicks his tongue, amused. “She’s fading.”

A different one kneels beside me, cold fingers tracing along the bruises blossoming across my ribs. “A shame,” he murmurs. “I was just beginning to enjoy this.”

The ring on my finger throbs, heavy and suffocating.

Jalith's magic cannot touch me, but these monsters? They do not need spells to break flesh.

They only need time.

They have all the time in the world.

A blade presses against my stomach, just above the waistband of my ruined tunic. Not deep enough to cut, just enough to warn.

The elf’s breath ghosts against my ear. “You could make this easier, you know.”

I do not answer.

The pressure increases, teasing. “Your master is not coming for you.”

The words slither into my mind, wrapping around the fragile hope I have held onto since they dragged me into this hell.

Xirath.

He had fought for me once, claimed me in front of his people. Had I been wrong to believe he would come again?

Something inside my chest coils, pressing against the ache of my ribs, against the bruises, against the exhaustion trying to drag me under.

I refuse to die here.

A slow breath fills my burning lungs. My fingers inch toward the blade hidden beneath the folds of my tattered tunic.

They think I am too weak to fight back.

They think this is already over.

Idiots.

The dagger slips free. A flash of steel, a twist of my wrist.

The nearest dark elf jerks backward, a sharp, startled cry bursting from his lips. His fingers clutch at his thigh, blood spilling through his grip.

I lunge, driving the blade into the side of another before he can react.

A roar of fury erupts through the camp.

Hands grab at me, clawing, restraining. A sharp elbow to the gut, a desperate wrench of my arm, I tear free, sprinting toward the tree line.

The world narrows into a singular, brutal focus.

Run.

Branches lash against my face as I push forward, lungs burning. Behind me, the elves curse, their voices sharp and furious.

“Catch her.”

“Break her legs this time.”

Laughter, cruel and eager.

The jungle stretches before me, thick and endless, but not empty. Something thrums in the distance, something just beyond my reach.

A predator.

Not them.

Something worse.

The shadows shift. A figure emerges from the darkness, golden eyes burning like embers against the night.

Xirath.

The elves do not see him yet.

But I do.

My step falters. Hope and terror slam through my ribs at once.

His focus is not on me.

It is on them.

I barely have time to brace before he moves.

A shadow ripping through the dark, too fast, too precise. The first elf barely has time to scream before claws slice through his ribs, a spray of blood painting the jungle floor.

The second stumbles backward, panic widening his eyes. “It’s him?—”

The words never finish.

Xirath’s tail lashes out, wrapping around the elf’s leg, yanking him from his feet. His skull shatters against the rock.

The remaining elves turn, their expressions shifting from confidence to fear.

Xirath steps forward, blood dripping from his claws, his fangs bared in a slow, deadly grin.

“You should have run,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with promise.

The jungle explodes into chaos.

I stumble, pressing a shaking hand to my ribs, my body screaming in protest.

One of the elves reaches for me, desperation in his movements.

Xirath moves faster.

A crack of bone, a sharp, choked scream, another body falls.

The last dark elf turns to flee.

Xirath lets him get three steps.

His tail snaps forward, coiling around the fleeing elf’s throat, lifting him effortlessly from the ground.

Panic flashes through the elf’s eyes.

Xirath does not grant him mercy.

The sound of his neck breaking is quiet, almost delicate.

His body drops, lifeless.

Silence descends, heavy, suffocating.

Xirath turns toward me, golden eyes burning, chest heaving.

The jungle stills.

Neither of us speaks.

I want to say something, but nothing comes.

His gaze traces over me, his expression unreadable.

Slowly, he steps forward.

The space between us shrinks, the air thick with something I cannot name.

His hand lifts, fingers ghosting over the bruises on my cheek, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his expression.

His voice is low, sharp as a blade. “Who did this?”

The bodies littering the jungle floor already answer for me.

He does not wait for a response.

His fingers press beneath my chin, tilting my face up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“You ran,” he murmurs.

I swallow. “I had to.”

A slow, deliberate exhale. He does not let me go.

“Next time,” he says, voice dark, possessive, absolute.

He continues, his voice going lower, “Wait for me.”