Page 49 of Bound In Shadow

His words stab like a blade.Handing her over. The simplest route.My entire body rebels at the notion. I recall the flash of her eyes, the tremor in her voice, the taste of her. The thought of giving her up to Sharavel’s inquisitors makes me feel physically ill.

“No,” I manage, voice tight. “I won’t do that.”

He inclines his head, though uncertainty lingers in his eyes. I wave him off, needing solitude. With another bow, he departs, leaving me alone with my roiling thoughts.

I lean against the hearth, heat from the flames warming my face but not reaching the chill in my chest. Guilt grips me.I’m responsible for Lysandra’s predicament. I claimed her, used her, entangled her in a plan that might never succeed.Now the council demands her death, and she no longer trusts me enough to stay hidden. She tried to flee, nearly died in the attempt, and I can’t even blame her.

Raising my hand, I stare at the faint lines of old scars across my palm—scars from my youth, from duels fought to secure my place as a prince. My entire life has been about proving my worth to a court that never truly respected me. Now I stand at a crossroads. If I relinquish Lysandra, I secure my future among them. If I refuse, they’ll treat me as a traitor.Could I survive that? Could I gather enough loyalists to wage war on the council?

My father’s memory haunts me. He was ruthless, never let empathy cloud his decisions. But each time I consider handing Lysandra over, my pulse flares with revulsion. She’s sirenborn, yes, but also… she’s become more to me than a mere captive. Something deeper stirs whenever she’s near, a sense of belonging I’ve never felt with anyone else. The night we shared burned that truth into my bones.

How is that possible?I was so sure my interest was shallow curiosity, or lust tinted with danger. But now, the thought of her lifeless eyes, her voice silenced, unmoors me.I can’t bear to lose her, but I also can’t see a path forward that doesn’t end in destruction.

Agony knots my gut. I slump into the chair again, burying my face in my hands. If I were a simpler man, I’d kill her myself, end this madness. Or if I were purely rebellious, I’d gather an army and tear the council down. But my resources are finite. The farmland enclaves are scattered. And Lysandra’s illusions—herenthrallment—can’t singlehandedly overthrow an entire city’s worth of Dark Elf might.

I hear a rustle at the door. “Stay out,” I snap, not in the mood for more company. The wards must have recognized someone.

A hesitant voice replies, “Xelith?” It’s Eiroren—her footsteps hush across the threshold. She’s one of the few who can pass the wards, having served as a lesser noble in my retinue.

I don’t bother sitting up. “What is it, Eiroren?”

She moves closer, the swish of robes audible. “I won’t intrude long. But the council’s ultimatum spreads through the halls. They say you have two days to produce Lysandra’s head or face open censure.”

“I know,” I grumble, lifting my face from my hands.

She hesitates, eyes flicking over my drawn expression. “I see the toll this takes on you, my prince. If you want my counsel… now’s the time.”

A muscle twitches in my jaw. “I have precious little faith in counsel these days.”

She dips her head, unwavering. “All the same, consider the bigger picture. You risk civil unrest by defying the council. They hold the majority support. If you become an open traitor, the farmland might crumble, and your enemies multiply.”

My tone turns sharp. “Are you suggesting I deliver Lysandra?”

Eiroren sighs, shoulders tensing. “I’m suggesting you weigh the cost, Xelith. One woman’s life, even if she’s special, against the entire city. Is she worth your potential downfall?”

Those words slice deep. My chest tightens, recalling how easily I could end this by sacrificing her. Yet an inner voice howls at the mere suggestion. “I refuse,” I say softly, “to make that trade.”

She studies me, eyes narrowing. “Then you must find a new path. Perhaps an alternative plan that satisfies the councilwithout killing her. But the farmland operation has stalled. The enclaves aren’t unified under your banner yet. Sharavel and Kalthos demand blood.”

I rub my temples. “Yes, and we have no time to unify them properly. Lysandra gave me partial intel, but trust was shattered when she tried to flee.”

Eiroren cocks her head. “Trust goes both ways, my prince. She must believe you might betray her to the council. Can you blame her for seeking a fallback?”

I flinch at how well she’s read the situation. “No. I can’t blame her. But it infuriates me all the same.”

She presses her lips into a thin line. “Your anger is overshadowed by your concern, though. That alone speaks volumes.”

For a moment, I say nothing, letting the crackle of the hearth fill the silence. Eiroren nods once more, then steps back. “If you need me, I’ll be preparing contingency measures for the farmland. But decide swiftly. The council’s blade hangs over both your necks.”

She leaves, the door clicking shut behind her. I’m alone again with the suffocating knowledge that the simplest solution to save my own throne is the very thing I can’t bring myself to do.

Eventually, I rise, pacing the room in restless circles. My mind churns with every angle.Could I stage Lysandra’s death, hide her away until I can strike at the council? Or could we flee Pyrthos entirely, vanish into the wider continent?But those ideas spiral into chaos. Hiding her might only buy time. Fleeing would cede the city to the council’s tyranny, and the farmland enclaves would pay in blood.

My footsteps slow near a side table, where a half-empty decanter of strong black liquor sits. Usually, I avoid drinking heavily—my father hammered discipline into me. But tonight, Ipour a generous measure, swallowing it in a raw gulp. The burn scalds my throat, matching the roiling fury inside me.

I picture Lysandra’s face when she accused me of using her, the betrayal etched in her eyes.She might not be entirely wrong.My ambitions always overshadow personal bonds. But something about her—the defiance, the vulnerability, even the lethal power she harbors—makes me yearn to protect her, not manipulate her.

I drain another mouthful, leaning against the table. A cold wave of despair sets in.I have this overwhelming urge to tear her apart for jeopardizing everything, for forcing me into this corner. Another part can’t imagine letting her slip away.

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