Page 33 of Taken By The Dark Three
Striding to my private study, I ignite a small arcane lamp with a passing gesture. Rows of tomes line the walls, each detailing advanced psionic manipulations or the genealogies of dark elf houses. I pluck one from the shelf, scanning its musty pages. My mind wanders, envisioning how best to lure her confidence, how to feed that smoldering tension between us until she mistakes her vigilance for curiosity. Then, in that crucial moment, I’ll slip inside her mind like a whisper, unraveling the puzzle of her existence.
A wicked thrill ripples through me. Let Vaelith teach her how to fight with swords. I’ll claim her soul in ways no blade can contest. Yet even as I form that vow, a kernel of doubt flickers. Suppose, in unraveling her, I unravel myself. She wields defiance like a blade, and I’m drawn to the cutting edge. The question remains: who will bleed first?
I push that doubt aside. I have centuries of House Velcorin dominance behind me, countless minds broken, secrets gleaned from the psionic arsenal. She’s just another challenge—thougha far more captivating one. In this solitary chamber, shadows flicker around me, and the lamp’s glow outlines my form in gold. I close the book, savoring the silence.
Tomorrow, I’ll refine my approach. Perhaps I’ll contrive a scenario that forces her to request my help, or at least consider it. If she wants a morsel of knowledge, I can exchange it for a sliver of mental contact. The thought of bartering with her sets my pulse racing again. We’re dancing on a knife’s edge, each step laced with danger. I can’t recall the last time I felt so alive.
With a final sigh, I let the lamp wink out. Darkness settles once more, and I stand in the hush, pressing a hand over the faint headache from her backlash. A twisted grin curves my lips. Yes, Selene, keep fighting. It only makes me hungrier. Let Vaelith cling to his illusions of authority. Let the Red Purna lurk in the city’s underbelly. None of it matters once I devour the secrets hidden in your mind.
I leave the study for my bedchamber, each stride echoing with my new resolve. The night encloses me in a sea of quiet confidence. Even battered, my pride reasserts itself. She might have dealt me a blow, but it’s not final. The next encounter will be mine to shape. And if cracks form in my arrogance, so be it—through those cracks flows the desire that fuels me. If I must fracture everything I once believed just to taste her mental fortress, I will. Because her defiance is the lure, and I’m already ensnared.
Settling onto my bed, I let my thoughts replay the exchange in her room. The flare of hatred and heat in her eyes, the swift lash of her psionic defense. Each detail is a private indulgence. Sleep beckons, but my consciousness clings to the aftershock. No one else dares to resist me like that, and I find it impossibly compelling.
At last, exhaustion claims me. I drift into a dream where I stand at the threshold of her mind, a vast labyrinth of swirling,mesmerizing arcs of magic. I push forward, and she meets me in the center, eyes blazing with that haunting mixture of fury and allure. The memory of that tension curls around me, sweet and perilous, whispering that I may never fully dominate her. The possibility intoxicates me. Let the city of Orthani revolve around its petty wars and alliances. My war is with Selene’s mind, and I will not rest until I am victorious—even if victory tears me open in the process.
11
SELENE
Morning’s first light filters through the narrow window of my chamber. I lie still on the small bed in Vaelith’s estate, mind already stirring with plans. My body has grown accustomed to the early routine: dawn training with Vaelith, bruising skirmishes, grim stares from his loyal men. But today promises something different—a war council, one that could yield a trove of Orthani’s tactical secrets if I play my part well.
I rise and move to the mirror near my table. My reflection reveals faint arcs of bruises from recent drills, along with the swirling arcane scars on my ribs, an unfortunate testament to a risky transformative spell in my past. Orthani’s generals would see them and suspect I’m more formidable than they realize, or at least suspect how far my magic goes. I want that detail concealed for now. If I plan to exploit them, surprise is my best weapon.
I press a hand against my ribs. Warmth trickles through my veins as I summon a trick of flesh-shaping. The faint hum of my transformative magic stirs. Carefully, I shift my skin’s texture over the scarred areas, blending them into seamless flesh. It’s no showy re-creation—just enough subtle smoothingso my attire won’t reveal anything suspicious. If the wards sense a faint surge, they likely won’t sound an alarm unless I attempt something grand. This is small-scale, a mere cosmetic shift. Still, sweat beads along my neck from the concentration. I can’t risk a slip.
When I glance back at the mirror, the scars have vanished beneath a delicate tapestry of unmarked skin. I exhale. The estate’s wards haven’t flared, no guard barges in. My secret remains safe.
A rap at my door pulls me from my thoughts. A guard steps in, features stony, and informs me Vaelith expects me in the main hall for the council. I give a curt nod, retrieving the dark tunic and breeches assigned to me. They’re standard Orthani attire for soldiers, but I add my own flair: leather bracers that conceal faint hints of arcane patterning, plus a belt carrying a single dagger Vaelith allowed me. He claims it’s for my tasks, but I sense the unspoken tension whenever I wear a blade near his men.
I follow the guard through winding corridors. Guards stand at intervals, hands resting on sword hilts, eyes flicking to me with caution. I pay them little heed. My heart pounds with an eager energy. This war council is a chance to gather intelligence. Orthani no doubt wants me present to show my supposed “loyalty,” but I intend to glean far more than they suspect.
At last, we arrive at a broad set of double doors carved with Orthani’s serpent insignia. The guard raps once, steps aside, and gestures me in. I push through, entering a grand chamber dominated by an oval table cluttered with maps, arcane crystals, and scattered parchments. A row of tall windows admits the day’s pale light, enough to illuminate half a dozen officers waiting in stony silence.
Vaelith stands at the head, obsidian arms folded, wearing his familiar sleeveless cuirass and a black sash with his family crest.He glances up sharply at my entrance. His gaze flickers over me, lingering for a breath longer than necessary—perhaps noticing I’ve concealed my scars. Or maybe the tension from our recent training session lingers. Heat flares in my chest at the memory of that morning’s clash, the crackle of energy when our weapons locked. I banish the thought. Focus, Selene.
He clears his throat. “Good, you’re here. Step forward.”
I do, keeping my chin level, ignoring the glares from the officers. Some remain seated, others stand, arms crossed in silent challenge. One I recognize: the woman with braided silver hair from earlier counsel sessions. Another is a stern man with a scar slashing his left cheek. The rest are new, but they all wear the same hardened expressions typical of Orthani’s leadership class.
Vaelith’s voice resonates through the chamber. “We convene to finalize strategies for our southern campaign. The orc threat has grown near the passes, and scouts report sightings of renegade humans among them. We cannot allow them to unify.”
A murmur of agreement ripples across the officers. Vaelith motions for me to approach the table. The central map depicts Orthani’s southwestern frontier, dotted with triangular icons for watchtowers, swirling lines for roads, and X marks for potential enemies. My sabotage from prior days remains, though I only vaguely see the evidence—lines slightly out of place, ridge placements misaligned. No one seems to have noticed yet.
One officer, the scarred man, gestures at the map’s edge. “Commander, we propose sending two regiments through the ravine to outflank any orc strongholds. Our supply wagons can follow once we secure the ridgeline.”
Vaelith frowns. “We risk entrapment if the orcs lay an ambush in that ravine. We considered a route further west.”
An older officer, wearing a high collar, chimes in. “That route is uncharted. The terrain may be too rough. Our men could lose formation.”
I sense the opening Vaelith has given me. He specifically wants my input. Maybe he suspects I know more about that region, or maybe he wants to test my cunning. I let the hush extend a beat, relishing the chance to impress them—on my terms.
“Commander,” I say, placing a steady hand near the map. “The orcs aren’t typically strong in siege tactics, but they excel at ambushes in tight spaces. That ravine is their dream scenario. If you push two regiments through it, you risk them unleashing rolling boulders or hidden archers from cliff edges. Your wagons will be sitting ducks.”
A faint hush follows. The older officer snorts. “You presume we can’t handle orc ambushes? We’ve crushed orcs in open combat for centuries.”
I smile, injecting a hint of condescension. “Open combat, yes. Not hidden canyon ambushes. This region is filled with caves they can use for quick strikes. Unless you enjoy losing men and supplies, reconsider.”
The scarred man bristles. Vaelith, however, watches me intently. “Then you suggest the alternate route? The one further west?”
