Page 23 of Bound In Shadow

I push the intrusive notion aside. If my fascination with her is indeed growing, I can weaponize it or bury it. She can remain a tool—powerful, yes, but still mine to control. Until I no longer need her, or until she ceases to amuse me.

With that cold resolution burning in my chest, I head toward the council wing. The torches on the walls flare as I pass, a sign of the fortress’s living wards recognizing my rank and letting me move unhindered. My plan is set in motion: woo the scattered rebels into my protective net, keep Lysandra entangled in my dealings, and ensure the council remains blind to my true intentions.

Yet a sliver of doubt wedges itself in my mind. Am I truly as detached as I claim? Or is Lysandra’s unwavering defiance whittling away at the walls I’ve built? I recall the raw challenge in her eyes mere moments ago, and a surge of restless heat floods my veins.I can handle this,I tell myself.She is a means to an end—nothing more.

Still, my heart beats a touch faster than usual. Because deep down, I sense that the line between means and obsession grows thinner with every breath. The city may fear the Hunter, but in my private domain, I face a hunt of my own making—a captive whose spirit refuses to bow.

I vow to keep that dynamic firmly in my grasp, to amuse myself with her struggles without succumbing to any weaker sentiment. Because if I allow my carefully crafted distance to collapse, if I let my fascination become something more… then the precarious web I’ve spun might unravel under our shared weight. And I cannot afford that. Not now.

Steeling my resolve, I stride onward, the fortress corridors echoing with my footsteps. The day is young, and I have many moves yet to make. Above all, I relish the next test of wills thatawaits me. Lysandra may not realize it yet, but each step we take—together or apart—draws us further into a game neither of us can truly control. And the primal thrill of that truth fuels me more than any vengeance or promise of power ever could.

7

LYSANDRA

Istand by the window in my borrowed chamber, watching daylight stretch across the fortress grounds. Already I miss the wide-open farmland I once considered my battleground—rough earth under my boots, a horizon that promised a taste of freedom. In here, the air smells of incense, old stone, and a faint floral note that reminds me of Xelith’s presence.

Despite the soft bed and decent meals, I’m keenly aware that I’m still a captive. This room, though lavish, is a gilded cage. Every flicker of light along the runic walls reminds me there are wards on each door and every archway. Even if I could slip past the guards who loiter outside, I wouldn’t make it twenty steps before the spells flared to life.

I glance at the table in the corner, where a half-eaten platter of fruit lies. This morning, a servant delivered it under Xelith’s orders. My stomach growls at the memory, but the taste of fresh sweetness makes me uneasy. Indulgence should be the last thing on my mind, but the body rarely cares about lofty principles. Survival instincts wage war with pride.

In the end,I think bitterly,I ate it all anyway.

A sharp knock at the door interrupts my brooding. Before I can respond, it opens. Xelith steps in, quiet as a midnight breeze. He doesn’t bother pretending to ask permission—this is his domain, after all. Seeing him now, in the bright swirl of daylight, rattles me more than I care to admit. His obsidian skin gleams, the silver war sigils on his forearms nearly glowing with arcs of power, and his white-silver hair is tied in a loose tail that sets off the stark planes of his face.

I force myself to meet his gaze. “You could wait to be invited, you know.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk. “We both know this is my wing, Lysandra. You’re a… guest here.”

I bark a humorless laugh. “Guest? Keep telling yourself that.”

He moves closer, the trailing scent of something crisp—like night air over cold water—surrounding him. “And how does our guest find her accommodations?”

In the pit of my stomach, frustration flares. He knows exactly how it feels to be caged, yet he taunts me with these niceties. “I prefer to keep my complaints to myself, Your Highness. Lest you throw me back in the dungeons for sport.”

He arches a brow, ignoring my barb. “I have more interesting ways to pass time than tormenting you with a cell.”

My pulse stutters at the dark promise in his tone, and I hate that my body responds with a surge of heated awareness. I glance away, feigning disinterest. “So why are you here this time?”

He leans against the wall, arms crossing leisurely. “To see how you’re… acclimating.”

I want to retort that I’ll never be acclimated to captivity, but I swallow the sarcasm. Instead, I fold my arms, mirroring his stance. “I’m alive, fed, and bored. Shall we continue pretending it’s anything else?”

He studies me, silver eyes keen. “We can skip the pretense if you like. I didn’t expect you to be docile.”

My cheeks burn. “You’d be disappointed if I were.”

His smirk deepens. “Undeniably.” The air between us crackles, charged with that peculiar tension that’s grown over the past days. Each time we speak, it feels like a verbal swordfight—one that neither of us can resist.

“Tell me something, Lysandra.” He tips his head, hair sliding over one shoulder. “Have you thought about my offer?”

I stiffen. “Which one?”

“The one concerning your rebels. Either we intercept them and offer some measure of protection, or we let the council get there first.”

I force my voice to remain steady. “I told you—I need time.”

He nods, pushing off the wall. “Time is running short. The council meets tonight, and they’ll want proof I can handle you—along with your scattered friends. If I can’t provide a plan, they’ll push for an all-out purge.”

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