Page 33 of Bound In Shadow

Don’t let sympathy blind you,I berate myself.She’s a tool, an ally of circumstance.But the memory of her closeness lingers, the brush of her arm under my palm—a fleeting reminder that beyond the political game, there’s a potent spark between us.

I pace to the window. Rain streaks the glass, smearing the view of Pyrthos’s labyrinthine streets below. Light glimmers on the drenched rooftops, and in the distance, the farmland is shrouded in gloom.A reflection of how precarious everything stands.

If Lysandra truly wields something akin to sirenblood, the entire fortress stands on a precipice. The council’s thirst for control will clash violently with any sign of forbidden power.War,or at least brutal purges,could follow in an instant.

Despite the logic that demands I remain emotionally distant, I can’t shake the memory of her tremulous voice saying she doesn’t know what’s happening to her. For a heartbeat, I’d felt the urge to reassure her, to promise protection beyond political necessity. That unsettles me more than the council’s threats.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating my reflection in the glass: obsidian skin, silver hair, war sigils that mark me as a noble exiled by his own people.I have my own grudges. My own ambitions.Lysandra is a piece on the board that might tip the entire game in my favor. Or destroy me if I lose control.

A thunderclap reverberates. I close my eyes, forcing my mind to settle.I must remain calm, cunning, unaffected.The counselof the Hunter emphasizes patience, a predator waiting for the perfect moment. That’s me, or so I’ve always believed.

Yet now, a day doesn’t pass without her face intruding into my thoughts, her fiery retorts echoing through my mind. The tension strung between us thrums like a taut wire, half threat, half… something else.

Another rumble of thunder shakes the glass. The rainfall intensifies, and I watch sheets of it cascade down. The hour is late, but I can’t rest. The council’s demands weigh on me, Lysandra’s precarious magic hovers at the periphery, and a swirl of conflicting urges churn in my core.

At last, I tear myself from the window. My desk holds an array of documents—farm rosters, political treatises, half-burned letters detailing hidden alliances. Mechanically, I sift through them, searching for any thread that might help me craft a believable plan to present at the next council meeting. If I can detail a strategy to integrate the rebels or root them out covertly, the council might hold off on open slaughter.

But my concentration frays. Each line blurs, replaced by an image of Lysandra’s guarded expression, the slight tremor when I asked her about illusions.Why does it affect me so?I’ve threatened humans before, manipulated them, used them as pawns. None ever stirred more than mild disdain.

She’s different—a challenge as fierce as any rival sorcerer I’ve faced, yet she wears that vulnerability like a cloak. And the echoes of her possible sirenblood weave an intoxicating sense of forbidden allure.It’s madness.

A humorless laugh escapes me. If the council knew how thoroughly tangled I am in this, they’d see it as weakness. Perhaps they’d be right. My father always warned me never to let emotion outweigh strategy.

Eventually, exhaustion creeps in, forcing my eyes to droop. I drag a hand over my face, snuffing out the overhead lampswith a quiet incantation. Shadows descend, broken only by the sporadic flashes of lightning outside.

I slump onto a divan by the wall, letting my head rest against the carved wood. The storm outside rages, and my mind remains a tempest of worry and reluctant longing.I have a day to push Lysandra into giving me something to pacify the council. A day to keep her illusions hidden. A day to maintain my own grip on the precarious throne of exiled power I still hold.

And, overshadowing it all, the possibility that Lysandra’s abilities are more than rumor.If she truly can enthrall minds, the council would brand her an existential threat to all Dark Elves.

The thunder echoes like a war drum. I close my eyes, trying to envision the path forward. Instead, I see her face again, the flicker of challenge in her gaze. My chest tightens with an unfamiliar ache.

Stay focused. The next step is ensuring she cooperates. The farmland rebels must be handled discreetly. Once that’s done…My thoughts fade into a swirling haze. The storm lulls me toward a fitful sleep.

In the dreamlike edges of my mind, I hear her voice—defiant yet laced with fear. See her lips forming half-spoken commands that ripple the air with subtle power. A cold sweat coats my skin. Even asleep, I can’t escape the pull she exerts on my psyche.

When I finally drift fully into slumber, it’s with a tangled sense of dread and fascination for the day ahead. Because the moment we step outside the safe bubble of these wards, we gamble with the secrets that might upend Protheka’s fragile order. And in that gamble, I’m risking far more than just my exile.

I’m risking the rigid control I’ve spent my life honing. And for what? A glimmer of the unknown—and a woman who mightbe the key to toppling the very power structure I’ve been plotting against for years.

Lightning flashes one last time, illuminating the chamber with stark brilliance before darkness enfolds me again. I exhale a shaky breath, bracing for the storm that’s no longer just outside these walls, but lurking deep within me.

9

LYSANDRA

Iwake to a distant rumble, unsure at first if it’s thunder or my own heart pounding. The fortress always breathes with its own currents: footsteps echoing in halls, servants murmuring behind closed doors, the hiss of mana-lamps igniting at dawn. But this morning, everything feels electric. My skin prickles with the sense that something is closing in.

I sit up, brushing the tangled strands of locks from my face. A weak ray of sunlight slips past the heavy drapery, illuminating the dust motes swirling in my chamber. I’m sore from head to toe—partly from the endless tension coiling through me these days, partly from the bruises that still linger. But my thoughts flash back to Xelith’s warnings.The council demands results… a day or two to decide… illusions… enthrallment…

A shaky breath escapes me. I’ve spent half the night poring over the scraps of farmland data Xelith allowed me to see, searching for a path that spares my rebels from slaughter. Yet the best I can devise is a partial compromise—leading his forces to enclaves that might be coaxed into surrender, or guiding them away from the smaller, more vulnerable pockets.But is thatbetrayal, or the only way to save them?The moral lines blur painfully.

I run a hand over my face and force myself upright. The plush bed, with its dark sheets and embroidered pillows, mocks me with its comfort. I don’t belong in a place like this, coddled by a Dark Elf prince even as my people still cower in secret corners of the farmland.

The door latch clicks, and I stiffen. Usually Xelith knocks, or at least signals me with a scuff of boots. This time, the intrusion is abrupt. A slender Dark Elf I’ve never seen before sweeps into the room, regal in stiff navy robes trimmed with silver. He has the bearing of a minor noble: well-groomed, chin held high, eyes flicking around as though everything offends him. A pair of soldiers flanks him, both wearing the insignia of the fortress guard. My heart slams into my ribs.

“Where is Xelith?” I demand, bristling at the intrusion.

The noble lifts a pale brow, pursing his thin lips. “I’m afraid the prince has been summoned away. Urgent council business.” His gaze roams over me, lingering on the fresh bruise on my forearm. “He left instructions to bring you before me, however. We have… matters to discuss.”

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