Page 4 of Bound In Shadow

A clank from the main room makes me freeze. I whirl around, heart hammering, but no one’s there. Possibly a guard delivering the promised meal, though they haven’t called me out. Cautious, I inch back into the main chamber. On the table sits a wooden tray laden with a bowl of watery stew and a hunk of bread that looks marginally fresh. A single cup of water rests beside it.

No guard in sight. Whoever delivered this managed to vanish in the span of a few heartbeats. I glance at the door—still locked. The fortress likely has no shortage of cunning ways to slip in and out undetected. The presence of the meal intensifies the emptiness gnawing at my belly. My instincts scream it could be poisoned, but would Xelith bother? If he wanted me dead, a single nod would suffice.

Cautiously, I sniff the stew. Smells bland, but not off. My stomach snarls. With a resigned sigh, I sink into the chair and set to devouring it. Every swallow soothes the rawness in my throat. The bread scrapes like sandpaper against my battered mouth, but I force it down, ignoring the throbbing in my cheek.

As I eat, I replay the conversation with Xelith in my head. My hatred for the Dark Elves stands, but something about him sets my nerves on edge in ways beyond mere revulsion. He doesn’t posture like typical nobility. He wields quiet authority, an air of detachment that’s almost more terrifying than outright cruelty. I can’t help wondering what it means—this exile he supposedly endures, this tension with the council. If it’s real, I might exploit it.

Or perhaps he’ll exploit me first.

I gulp the last of the water, wincing at the dryness in my throat. The tray now empty, I push it aside and slump back in the chair. My body begs for rest, but my mind refuses to settle. This fortress is a labyrinth of secrets, and I’m trapped at its heart. I need to find a way out—or a way to secure the freedom of my remaining allies.

Time drags. The flickering torch on the wall casts dancing shadows. My eyelids grow heavy despite my adrenaline. The events of the day crash over me all at once: the hours of fighting, the betrayal that led us to be ambushed, the chaotic retreat, and finally the humiliating capture. A tidal wave of weariness lulls me, but I fight it as best I can.I shouldn’t sleep. I need to plan. I need…

But my body has its limits. Slowly, I feel the tension slipping from my muscles, replaced by an all-encompassing exhaustion. Maybe a brief rest—just to gather my strength. I shift in the chair, wrists still bound, chain drooping off the side. My head throbs, and I close my eyes with a shaky exhale.

Memories flash: the farmland at dawn, golden fields where families once toiled under the lash; the moment I raised the rebel banner, hearts alight with hope; the sickening realization that we were surrounded; the clash of blades, screams, smoke…

I drift, half-lost in the swirl of images. Through the haze, one thought remains clear: I am not done fighting. Not until every last chain in this cursed city is broken—including my own.

Eventually, I succumb to a fitful doze, posture slumped, arms stiff. The fortress hums around me like a living beast, waiting, watching. And in that uneasy darkness, my anger burns like a coal, refusing to die.

2

XELITH

Istand on the upper balcony of Pyrthos Fortress, watching the last of the daylight bleed across the horizon. Beneath me, the courtyard is a mess of broken bodies and shattered hopes. I can still smell the blood on the wind, sharp and metallic. Dozens of human rebels were dragged through these gates earlier, their pitiful attempts at liberation crushed before they truly began.

My attention lingers on one rebel in particular—Lysandra Riven. Even from a distance, I could sense her defiance. I saw it in the way she refused to lower her head, the way her eyes burned with hatred as the guards forced her onto her knees. She’s different from the usual rabble, the ones who shrink when confronted with our power. I’ve encountered enough human rebels to know real spirit is rare. So many fight out of desperation, fear, or basic survival. Few possess the raw will that Lysandra radiates.

I press my palms against the carved stone railing and let my gaze rove over the courtyard. Torches sputter to life along the fortress walls. Soldiers stride past, boots crunching on gravelly stone. They toss bodies into carts headed for the pyres. A memory surfaces—an image of Lysandra’s furious glare when Isaw her up close. Such a potent blend of pride and recklessness. If the Dark Elf council has its way, she won’t live to see another dawn.

But perhaps I have a say in that.

A quiet step behind me signals the arrival of someone I know well: Eiroren, a noble of lesser birth who’s made herself useful since I returned to Pyrthos. She halts a respectful distance away, her violet eyes flicking to the courtyard and then back to me.

“My prince,” she says, her tone as refined as ever. “Shall I arrange additional guards for the rebel leader? The council grows impatient.”

I turn and cross my arms over my chest. “The council is always impatient. If they had their way, Lysandra Riven would be headless by now, displayed on a pike in the city square.”

Eiroren lowers her gaze but not her chin, a subtle mark of caution. She’s fully aware I outrank her by birth, exile or not. “They believe it necessary to quell further uprisings.”

I consider that. “Perhaps. But I have other plans.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “The King’s men speak of your potential reinstatement if you comply with their demands. Bringing them Lysandra’s head is the quickest path to regaining your title, my prince.”

A faint edge creeps into my voice. “So they’d like me to betray what I stand for—again. Strange how they’re so eager to pretend my exile never happened.”

Eiroren doesn’t argue. She understands the precarious game I play. I was once a favored son in the Dark Elf court, with influence that spread far beyond Pyrthos. One misstep—a so-calledact of treason—landed me here, an outcast in my own domain. The council uses me when it suits them, but half of them would thrust a blade between my ribs the second they no longer need me.

I return my attention to the courtyard. “What is Lysandra’s condition now?” I ask softly.

“She’s detained in the lesser hall. Guards reported she’s bruised but still combative.” Eiroren tilts her head. “Did you speak with her already?”

“Yes,” I admit. The memory stirs something in my chest, an odd mix of amusement and respect. “She’s… interesting.”

Eiroren’s lips part, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “You’ve rarely shown interest in human prisoners before. Is she truly that valuable?”

I turn to face her fully. My skin is the color of polished obsidian, etched with silver war sigils that mark my noble lineage. I sense her gaze flick down my arms, lingering on those symbols. “I have my reasons,” I answer.

---