Page 29 of Bound In Shadow

Shoving those thoughts aside, I sink onto the bed. My head throbs with the day’s barrage of new threats, new bargains. The memory of Xelith’s proximity lingers, as does the vexing warmth that pools in my belly whenever he leans too close.It’s just adrenaline,I tell myself.Just the confusion of captivity.

But no matter how many times I repeat it, a small voice whispers that my fascination is real, a lethal spark dancing between predator and prey.I mustn’t lose my head.

Curling onto my side, I stare at the flickering torches outside the window. My life has become a twisted dance with a dark prince who sees me as both tool and temptation. The lines blur, each step tangled in power and unspoken yearnings.

I vow to keep my secrets until I grasp enough leverage. The illusions—if that’s what they are—remain half-formed, but they might be a key. If I can refine them, I could slip out of this fortress or bend a guard to retrieve messages for me.Carefully, Lysandra,I remind myself.One misstep, and you’re done.

Thoughts spin until weariness drags me under. I drift into a restless doze, haunted by half-dreams of swirling mana-lights, farmland in flames, and silver eyes studying me with predatory intent.

When I wake, the chamber is dim with evening shadows. My mouth is dry, my body stiff. Rising, I wander to the table and pick at the remnants of fruit.Still sweet.It calms the gnawing hunger.

A sense of watchfulness pervades the room, as though wards or eyes beyond these walls keep vigil. My skin prickles, remembering how Xelith said he’s not entirely alone in wanting me locked tight.Eiroren, Rhazien… gods know how many more.

I shuffle to the window and press my palms against the cool glass. Outside, Pyrthos’s spires glimmer under the setting sun, the city swathed in bruised-purple light. Somewhere out there,the farmland watchers close in on the rebels I once led.By tomorrow, a decision must be made.

An ache lodges in my chest as I recall the day’s events. The push-pull with Xelith intensifies each time we speak—like magnets we can’t align, forcibly repelling yet inescapably drawn. I wrap my arms around myself, shutting my eyes.

I won’t let my people die because of my pride.If that means forging a devil’s bargain with Xelith, so be it. But I’ll do it on my terms, illusions or no illusions.

In the hush of my chamber, I vow that no matter how fierce our verbal sparring or how unsettling the flickers of attraction, I’ll hold tight to the core of who I am. If Xelith thinks to enthrall me as thoroughly as these wards entrap me, he’ll discover the cost of underestimating a woman who has nothing left to lose.

A shaky breath escapes me. The tension in my limbs refuses to subside, and my mind still buzzes with uncertain magic. So I remain by the window, letting night fall, waiting for the inevitable next step in this twisted dance.

Because the longer we exchange these heated glances, the deeper we wade into an undercurrent of danger, desire, and shifting power that might very well consume us both—and I’m not sure which of us will emerge triumphant… or if we’ll both burn.

8

XELITH

Istand on the threshold of a long, gleaming corridor in the heart of Pyrthos Fortress, forcing my breathing to remain steady. On either side of me, tall columns carved with serpentine motifs reflect flickering torchlight, making it appear as though the shadows slither across the walls. Despite the grandeur, a coil of unease tightens in my gut. The Dark Elf Council has summoned me—again. Their message arrived at dawn: an ultimatum wrapped in formalities. They want answers about Lysandra, and they’re done waiting.

My footfalls echo like a herald of bad news as I cross the polished floor. Two guards stationed outside the council chambers stiffen when I approach. They wear the insignia of King Throsh’s personal garrison: dark tabards embroidered with the emblem of the Hunter—a hooded figure with a drawn bow. Their eyes track me warily, as if they suspect I might conjure shadows to slit their throats at any moment.

One guard gestures to the large, rune-bound doors. “The council awaits, Prince Xelith.” He speaks my title in a clipped tone, not quite insolent but also devoid of warmth.

I tilt my head, acknowledging them briefly before touching the door’s central sigil. Mana flares, reading my signature, then the wards unlock with a hiss. The door swings inward, revealing a semicircular hall draped in thick tapestries. A ring of council members sits perched on elevated seats arranged around the perimeter. Each seat bears the crest of its occupant’s ancestral line, from lesser houses to the more influential families that shape Dark Elf politics.

The tension in the air is palpable. Whispers die the instant I step into the circle. I feel their collective scrutiny like an oppressive weight pressing on my shoulders.

A slender figure at the middle of the arc stands, brushing off her elaborate robes. Lady Sharavel—one of the more vocal councilors who opposed my return to Pyrthos. Her eyes narrow. “Prince Xelith Vaeranthe,” she intones, voice carrying across the domed chamber. “You grace us with your presence at last.”

I offer a short bow, keeping my expression neutral. “Councilors. I received your summons.”

She gestures for me to come forward, and I do so, stopping in the middle of the floor where a mosaic of the Thirteen pantheon sprawls in swirling lines of color. Torchlight overhead catches the black-lacquered arcs in the tile, making them glimmer like fresh ink.

Sharavel presses her lips into a thin line. “We’ve heard troubling whispers—your lenience regarding the human rebel. Perhaps you care to explain why she yet breathes.”

I meet her gaze evenly. “Lysandra Riven’s execution might serve the bloodlust of a few, but it would do little to prevent further unrest among the farmland laborers. She’s more valuable alive, so I can glean information that might stabilize our production lines and quell the rebellion more permanently.”

A low murmur sweeps through the council seats. Some nod in reluctant agreement, others maintain scowls. Lord Kalthos,a formidable figure with braided white hair, leans forward. “That was your explanation a tenday ago, Prince Xelith,” he says, voice rough. “You assured us you’d extract details of the rebellion swiftly. Instead, we hear rumors that she’s treated… comfortably. Roaming the fortress on your arm. Is that wise?”

“Comfort,” I echo, letting a hint of irony tinge my voice. “She remains under constant watch. I allow her short walks for morale and cooperation. A caged dog is more likely to bite, after all.”

A few councilors exchange intrigued glances. They understand the logic of controlling a prisoner with subtlety rather than outright brutality—some do it themselves behind closed doors. But Sharavel doesn’t look convinced.

She arches a brow. “And have you gleaned anything of substance from her, or is this indulgence of yours purely for show?”

Anger simmers in my chest. I clench my fists behind my back, determined not to let them see how her condescension grates on me. “It’s a process. Humans are stubborn, especially those who believe in a cause. If I broke her too quickly, we’d risk inciting her allies to even more desperate measures.”

---