Page 117 of Claimed In Darkness

Zephiran moves before I do. Ther’s a shift in the air, a tightening of muscles.

He is awake before the rest of the world, rising slow, careful, his body already coiled for a fight.

Not reaching for his sword.

Not yet.

He knows exactly what this is.

A game.

A show of power, a flex of control, a carefully laid trap wrapped in the illusion of diplomacy.

The High Council doesn’t need to send soldiers to kill us.

If they wanted us dead, we’d already be rotting in the dirt.

This is worse.

They want us alive.

Preferably me.

That means—they understand what I am.

Or at least, they think they do.

They come clad in power and arrogance.

Six of them step forward.

Not just warriors—elites.

Their armor is ornate, stitched through with silver filigree, their weapons polished to a shine.

Not for function.

For show.

A reminder of who they are.

Of what they control.

And what they are about to take.

Me.

I feel Zephiran tense beside me, the air around him vibrating with barely restrained violence.

We do not make the first move.

Because want to hear what they have to say before I kill them.

The man at the front steps closer.

Older.

Not frail, but aged like steel that has been reforged too many times.

---