Page 5 of Bound In Shadow

She waits, but I offer no further explanation. Eventually, she inclines her head in acquiescence. “Shall I see to her accommodations?”

“No, I’ll handle that. Just ensure the guards maintain a respectful distance. I don’t want her beaten or harassed unnecessarily.”

“As you wish.” Eiroren’s tone remains polite, but a flash of confusion crosses her features. She, like many others, probably wonders why I care. Human rebels are commonly treated as vermin. Show them any mercy and they’ll bite your hand, or so the court believes.

Yet Lysandra’s anger doesn’t strike me as the mindless rage of a starving peasant. It has purpose, intelligence. In another life, she might have been a formidable ally—or a formidable rival. For now, she’s my captive, and I intend to discover exactly what motivates her.

I dismiss Eiroren with a quick nod. She bows slightly, then glides away, steps fading into the corridor. Alone again, I lean against the balcony rail and survey the city lights beyond thefortress walls. Pyrthos is expansive, built along the Turion River Delta. The farmland that feeds it stretches out in neat, regimented plots, worked by human hands. Perhaps that’s why Lysandra chose this city for her rebellion—an abundance of slaves and a milder brand of oppression than the truly savage enclaves. She must have believed it was the best place to ignite a spark of hope.

A lost cause, obviously. Yet a small part of me admires her audacity.

I push away from the railing, stepping back into the fortress’s interior. The corridor is lined with tapestries depicting hunts led by Dark Elven nobility—gods, kings, and warriors. Their stories are told in bold swirls of color: silver, midnight blue, deep crimson. My footsteps echo on the polished floor. Soon, I pass a pair of guards flanking a heavy door that leads to the main hall. They snap to attention at my approach.

“All quiet, my prince?” one ventures, uncertain if I welcome conversation.

“For now,” I say curtly. Then I continue on, descending a winding staircase that leads to a network of smaller corridors. The fortress is a maze of chambers: storerooms, private suites for visiting nobles, and hidden passages that date back to the city’s founding. I know most of them—my old rank once gave me full run of Pyrthos.

Even in exile, my knowledge of these secret halls remains valuable. That’s partly why the council hasn’t ordered my execution outright; I’m more useful alive. Another reason is my ability to manipulate shadow magic—though it’s stunted without official sanction from the Dark Elf priesthood. They made certain of that when they stripped me of certain rites. Still, I’ve retained enough skill to be dangerous in my own right.

I enter a side chamber where I keep a personal stash of documents. The room is sparsely furnished: a single desk, achair, a large trunk stuffed with half-burned records from my old estate. A single torch flickers on the wall, revealing swirling dust motes in the air.

Dropping onto the chair, I rummage through a stack of parchments detailing local farmland yields, guard rotations, and the city’s defense spells. Lysandra and her rebels nearly managed to sabotage those wards earlier. Impressive. A moment longer, and parts of Pyrthos’s farmland might have gone up in flames, crippling the city’s food supply.

My eyes drifts to the corner of the desk, where an official missive from the council rests. They want a swift public execution of every rebel, starting with Lysandra. They claim it will set an example. Another note from King Throsh’s inner circle suggests reinstating some of my privileges if I comply, hinting at the possibility of restoring my formal title.

I feel a faint sneer tug at my lips. Do they truly believe I’d grovel for scraps after they exiled me? My exile taught me to value what little freedom remains in this rigid society. Groveling is for the spineless.

Still… the notion of power has its allure. If I brought them Lysandra’s severed head, I could barter for more influence. Enough to usurp the local nobility, perhaps. But something about that path rings hollow. She’s too intriguing to dispose of. She possesses a magnetism even in her battered state, an inner force that resonates with my own rebellious streak against the council.

If she could gather so many humans under her leadership, maybe there’s a way to harness that fervor. Not to mention, I sense something pulsing beneath her bravado. A hidden strength—maybe not pure magic, but a potential that’s unusual for a human. I’d prefer to unravel that mystery rather than snuff it out.

A rap on the doorframe jolts me from my thoughts. One of my loyal guards, Rhazien, stands at the threshold. He’s short by Dark Elf standards, but broad-shouldered and fiercely devoted—one of the few I trust not to rat me out to the council at the first sign of trouble.

“My prince, they’ve taken the rebel woman to a small chamber off the lesser hall, as you instructed.” He keeps his voice low, respectful. “She’s had some food. No major incidents—besides cursing at a few guards.”

A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “I’d expect no less from her.” I tap my fingers on the desk. “What do the others say?”

Rhazien’s expression darkens. “Many want to watch her suffer. They lost comrades in the farmland battle. They speak of demanding a blood price. The council’s supporters especially clamor for her execution.”

I resist a weary sigh. Hatred runs deep here. Humans are widely regarded as lesser creatures, suitable only for labor or entertainment. Lysandra’s rebellion chipped at that narrative, prompting fear among my kin. “They can clamor all they like,” I say. “I’m not finished with her.”

Rhazien inclines his head. “Understood, my prince. Shall I move her to one of the dungeons?”

“No.” I tap the parchment in front of me. “The lesser chamber is fine for now. I’ll speak with her again soon, see if she’s ready to be… cooperative.”

He studies me briefly, then nods. “I’ll ensure no one disturbs you.” Without further comment, he turns and exits, footsteps receding.

I gather my papers, thinking about Lysandra’s defiance. A small, reckless part of me aches to see just how far she can push before she breaks. Another part—more pragmatic—wonders if we can reach an agreement. She doesn’t have to love me or mypeople, but if her goals align with my private ambitions… well, there could be a mutually beneficial path.

Standing, I extinguish the torch. The corridor outside is lit well enough by mounted sconces. My boots echo on the stone as I retrace my route, eventually arriving at a side door that leads toward the wing of the fortress where Lysandra is kept. A pair of guards stiffen at my approach. One glances at the chain coiled at his hip, as if expecting me to request it.

I shake my head and step past them without a word. The hall beyond is narrow, flickering with subdued torchlight that gleams on polished black stone. My footsteps slow as I near the wooden door with swirling runes etched along the frame. I can hear faint rustling inside—movement, perhaps the scrape of a chair’s leg on the floor.

My hand hovers over the latch. I hesitate. Normally, I’d stride in confidently. But something about Lysandra’s presence demands a more careful approach. She’s dangerous in her own way, though it’s not necessarily physical strength that concerns me. Her sharp tongue and unyielding spirit could rally others if given half a chance.

I exhale softly, remembering how she glared at me earlier. That gaze, filled with contempt, challenged me to do my worst. It’s rare that anyone dares confront me so openly, especially a mere human. Oddly enough, I admire it.

A smile twists my lips. I press down on the latch. The wards recognize my magical signature, allowing me entry without triggering any alarms or traps. The door opens on silent hinges, revealing a small chamber lit by a single torch bracketed on the wall.

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