Page 18 of Bound In Shadow

I scan the room again, taking in the lavish details. A small side table holds an ornate pitcher of water and a silver bowl. On impulse, I walk over, lift the pitcher, and pour the water into the bowl. My reflection wavers on the surface. Bruises still mar my cheeks, and my dark hair is a ragged mess. The faint candlelight picks out hollows under my eyes. I hardly recognize this battered woman as the same rebel who once stood before her people, proclaiming they’d see a free tomorrow.

You’re not broken,I tell myself.Just cornered.

I set the pitcher down. A wave of fatigue hits, but there’s a restlessness inside me that won’t let me collapse yet. I cross to the wardrobe, testing the handle. Unlocked. Inside, I find several sets of clothing, all in dark hues—fine tunics, breeches, simple black dresses. They look about my size, which means Xelith anticipated me wearing them. The knowledge stings, but I grab a tunic and breeches anyway. Better than the torn, bloodied outfit I’ve been wearing for days.

The adjoining door leads to a washroom that’s large enough to make me gawk. A metal tub stands in the center, and a series of brass pipes feed into it. Arcane runes adorn the walls, likely controlling temperature or water flow. Even the floor is warm under my bare feet, courtesy of subtle heating spells. I exhale a shaky breath, letting my guard drop just enough to enjoy the idea of a hot bath.

Stripping off my battered clothes, I fill the tub. Steam rises, carrying a faint floral scent from the enchanted pipes. I slip intothe water, hissing as it stings the cuts on my arms and chest. But the heat soothes my bruised muscles, coaxing tension from my limbs. I close my eyes, letting the water cradle me for a few stolen minutes of peace.

In the silence, my thoughts wander to the farmland beyond Pyrthos. The rebels who once followed me are likely imprisoned, or worse.Have I failed them beyond repair?The notion weighs heavily. If forging a deal with Xelith means saving at least some of them, do I have the right to refuse?

Steam curls around me. My hair fans out, tangling with the water, and I can’t help thinking how bizarre it is to be bathing in luxury while humans starve or rot in cells not far away. My nails dig into my palms.I won’t lose sight of my goal.One day, we’ll topple these towers. Even if I have to use Xelith’s own ambition to do it.

Time drifts until the water cools. I climb out, wrap myself in a plush towel, and carefully inspect the fresh bandages. They’ll need changing soon, but at least I’m no longer bleeding. I dress in the black tunic and breeches, cinching them at the waist. The soft fabric is a stark contrast to the rough leathers I wore before.

Back in the bedroom, I catch a glimpse of movement at the threshold. A tray of food sits on the side table—someone must have slipped in while I bathed, silent as a shadow. My stomach rumbles. On the tray, I find slices of roasted taura with spiced vegetables, a small loaf of dark bread, and a pitcher of water tinged with a citrusy aroma. My wariness flares. But if Xelith wanted me dead, he could have done it in a far more brutal, public way. Poison seems unnecessary.

So I eat, each bite fueling me. The roasted meat is tender, the vegetables rich with unfamiliar seasonings. I hate how my body craves it, how good it feels to fill the hollow ache in my belly. When I finish, I push the tray away and sink onto the bed, which is far too soft and inviting.

A faint sense of surrealism grips me. Less than a day ago, I was chained in a grim cell, sure I’d be executed. Now, I’m in Xelith’s private wing, eating real food, wearing clean clothes. The fortress remains a prison, but I’ve stepped into a new realm within it—one where Xelith wields power behind the scenes, untouchable by the lesser ranks. This forced proximity means I have a chance to observe him more closely… and possibly exploit any weaknesses.

Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids. I lie down, my side supported by the plush bedding, muscles grateful for the respite. Despite the cushion, tension knots in my shoulders. I can’t forget that I’m a captive. Xelith’s captive. This comfortable room is a gilded cage, nothing more.

I drift for a while, half-dozing, half-alert for any sign of movement. At some point, footsteps echo in the corridor. My body tenses. The door opens, revealing Xelith’s tall silhouette against the corridor’s light. He steps inside, quietly shutting the door behind him.

I bolt upright, heart pounding. “Do you have a habit of entering without knocking?” I ask, voice raspier than intended.

He shrugs, crossing the distance with unhurried grace. “This is my wing. You’re the guest here, remember?”

“Guest,” I echo, bitterness creeping in. “Right.”

He stops a foot away from the bed, gaze drifting over me. The tension thickens as if the air itself coils. My pulse quickens, and heat gathers at the base of my spine, though I loathe how my body reacts. We’re enemies. We’re locked in a battle of wits and wills. So why does his presence make my blood thrum?

“Are you settling in?” he asks, voice softer now, lacking the arrogance he displayed earlier.

I lift my chin. “It’s better than a damp cell. But don’t expect me to be grateful.”

He nods, something like amusement glinting in his eyes. “I wouldn’t dare.”

The silence crackles. My hand clenches the bedsheet, an anchor against the swirl of conflicting emotions. I sense his attention lingering on the curve of my cheek, on my damp hair. I hate the rush of warmth coursing through me at the thought that he might find me… appealing. Yet I can’t deny the undercurrent of attraction that hums beneath the animosity.

“Your bath was acceptable?” he asks, almost too casually.

I fight a scoff. “It served its purpose.”

He inclines his head. “Good. You need to regain your strength. Tomorrow, I have plans to walk the fortress with you—show you certain areas, gauge your reactions. If we’re to present a united front to the council, we must appear… cooperative.”

A surge of apprehension warps my stomach. “You’re parading me around the fortress like I’m your docile pet?”

“An unfortunate necessity,” he says, folding his arms. “You have a role to play. That role includes convincing others you’re no longer a threat—that I’ve ‘tamed’ you enough to keep you on a leash, so to speak.”

Anger flashes. “I will never be tamed.”

He leans down, bracing a hand on the bed beside my hip. I smell the faint spice of his magic, cool and dark. “Careful with that fire, Lysandra. You might burn the wrong people if you’re not selective.”

My heart thrashes in my chest, but I don’t move. Our faces hover inches apart. Even in the dim light, I see the faint violet glow that stirs in his eyes when he’s… intrigued. We linger in that charged space, his breath fanning across my skin. For a moment, everything else falls away—the council, the fortress, even the rebellion. There’s only the quiet press of desire tangled with hatred.

I tear my gaze from his, forcing a shaky breath. “You said it yourself—this is a game. You want to see me perform. Fine. But don’t mistake cooperation for surrender.”

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