Page 64 of Bound In Shadow

We push forward, slicing through the swirl of bodies that still remain in the Great Hall. Council loyalists fall back, battered by illusions and orchard steel. Some attempt a last-ditch stand, but Takar and the orchard rebels repel them. My shadows lash out, disarming a guard who tries to lob a spear at Lysandra. She nods in grateful acknowledgment, a silent vow that we’re in this together.

Ahead, the dais steps loom—once the seat of the ruling council, the site of countless edicts that condemned humans to forced labor and outcasts to certain death. Fractured columns litter the space, arcane runes flickering faintly along the floor’s mosaic. I sense wards in the air, a subtle hum that the council likely activated to suppress illusions or enthrallment. That might hamper Lysandra’s power if we get too close. We must be swift.

We crest the dais steps, hacking aside a pair of guards who fling themselves between us and the cluster of robed figures. My chest heaves with each breath, the ache of bruises radiating from my ribs. From my side vision, I catch Lysandra grimace, clutching her side where she was struck earlier. Still, she pushes onward, illusions swirling in her free hand. Her eyes narrow on the figures near the dais—Sharavel, Kalthos, and Nyrus. She focuses on them like a predator locking onto its final kill.

Sharavel stands center stage, robes torn, a faint silver glow emanating from a pendant at her throat. Likely a ward against enthrallment. Kalthos grips his staff, arcane energy flickering at the tip. Nyrus cradles an arm, a fresh wound seeping blood, but his eyes gleam with hatred. A handful of lesser councilors huddle behind them, trembling.

“How dare you defile these halls, traitor prince!” Kalthos snarls, lifting the staff. “I tolerated your rebellion once, but no more. We’ll kill you on the spot and parade your carcasses for all to see.”

Nyrus’s lips curl in a sneer. “And your siren whore—she’ll scream her last breath before us. We’ll string up her body outside for the farmland to witness.”

A cold wave of fury slams through me. My shadows quiver in response, swirling across the marble floor. My heart thunders at the venom in their words, the casual threat to Lysandra. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lysandra’s jaw tense, illusions flickering dangerously around her clenched fist.

“You won’t touch her,” I say, voice trembling with rage. “I will destroy any who threaten her. I don’t care if you are the council’s elite or the Thirteen themselves.”

Sharavel scoffs, though her face betrays fatigue. “Bold. Foolish.” She flicks her hand, chanting an arcane incantation. The wards on the floor surge, arcs of violet lightning dancing across the mosaic. Takar staggers back, cursing.

Lysandra staggers too, illusions winking out momentarily. The wards react strongly to her siren presence. She clutches my forearm for balance, breath ragged. I can feel how close she is to her limit.We must break them now.

Nyrus, emboldened by the wards, lunges forward, a conjured blade of shimmering light in his hand. He aims straight for Lysandra, intending to cut her down while her illusions flicker. A jolt of cold terror shoots through me. I roar, shadows coalescing around my arm, forming an ebony sword that meets his strike mid-air. The clash reverberates, sending sparks skittering across the dais.

“You wretch,” Nyrus spits, pressing down. “You’d slaughter your own kind for a human?”

My teeth grind. “You’re not my kind,” I snarl, pushing him back with a surge of shadow. “My kind doesn’t relish murder for sport.”

He staggers, eyes blazing. Before I can finish him, Kalthos steps in, staff discharging a bolt of crackling energy. I barelydodge aside, but the jolt grazes my shoulder, pain stabbing through me. Lysandra shouts my name, illusions swirling again as she counters with a wave of dizzying shapes that buffet Kalthos’s senses. He stumbles, staff dropping from his hand. Takar seizes the opening, ramming his sword through Kalthos’s chest in a swift motion.

Kalthos stiffens, eyes wide in shock, then crumples. The staff clatters, arcane light fading. I breathe hard, shadows receding around my arm as I reel from the near-miss. One key noble is down, but the fight isn’t done.

Sharavel utters a sharp cry, lunging to grab the staff. She whirls on me, cloak swirling, mana flaring at her fingertips. “You will pay for Kalthos’s blood,” she hisses, voice trembling with rage. She flicks the staff in Lysandra’s direction, arcane energy roaring to life again. “Die, siren filth?—”

But Lysandra draws a ragged breath, enthrallment spiking in her voice. “Stop!” she commands, the single word echoing through the hall like a thunderclap. The wards flare, trying to repel her power, but she forces it through, tears streaming down her face from the strain. I watch in awe as Sharavel’s next spell fizzles, her expression going slack for a heartbeat.

“Finish her,” Lysandra gasps, voice cracking. I see the heartbreak in her eyes—she doesn’t want more bloodshed, but Sharavel leaves no choice.

My chest clenches, but I recall every atrocity Sharavel condoned. Summoning my shadows one final time, I slash across the dais, striking Sharavel’s chest with a blade of living darkness. She chokes, eyes flaring with shock, then collapses. Her wards flicker, the staff clattering away. A hush falls, shattered only by the ragged breathing of orchard rebels behind us.

Two key nobles down—Kalthos and Sharavel. That leaves Nyrus still alive, anger twisting his features. He staggers upright,arcane blade forming again in his hand. “You’ll regret this, Vaeranthe. You and your siren queen.” The sneer in his voice is laced with pure hatred.

He lunges for Lysandra, ignoring the orchard rebels who close in. I force my battered body between them, parrying his blade with a last-second swirl of shadow. My arms ache, sweat stinging my eyes. He’s faster than before, desperation fueling him. Our blades clash, sparks dancing around us. Lysandra tries to channel illusions to help, but the wards still flicker, interfering with her power. Her illusions fade as quickly as she summons them, leaving me to hold Nyrus off alone.

His blade presses mine down, the magical force crackling. “You’d give up your nobility for a worthless creature?” he spits, eyes wild.

I bark a hollow laugh, teeth gritted. “She’s worth more than your entire council combined,” I retort, voice shaking with fury. My shadow blade pulses, but the wards hamper me, siphoning some of my magic. I can’t summon a lethal surge without risking meltdown.One final strike.That’s all I need.

Nyrus twists, aiming a slash at Lysandra even as we lock swords. I see his plan—try to circumvent me. A hot wave of terror floods me.I can’t let him reach her.Summoning every scrap of resolve, I shift my stance, letting him overswing, then pivot inside his guard. The angle of my shadow blade changes, driving the edge into his ribs.

He gasps, eyes bulging. Blood slicks the dais as my blade severs through arcane energy and bone. For a heartbeat, he clutches my shoulder, mouth opening in silent rage. Then he collapses, the conjured blade winking out. Silence drapes over us like a shroud.

I stagger, leaning on the dais for support. Lysandra rushes forward, illusions dissipating entirely. The orchard rebels crowd behind her, weapons raised in case more guards appear. But atlast, no new wave of soldiers emerges. The Great Hall stands wrecked—shattered columns, scorch marks from spells, bodies of council loyalists. My breath rasps in my ears.

One lesser councilor scrambles behind an overturned bench. Takar levels his sword at him. The orchard rebels form a ring, and a hush settles, broken only by the drip of blood and moans of wounded.

“Is that all?” Lysandra whispers, voice raw with heartbreak. She glances at the fallen nobles—Kalthos, Sharavel, Nyrus—the triumvirate who shaped so much cruelty.Now lying still.

I manage a shaky nod. “They tried to kill you. I—” My throat constricts. “I couldn’t let them.”

She brushes a trembling hand over my cheek, her eyes shining with a mix of relief and sorrow. “I know.” For a moment, the exhaustion in her face mirrors my own. She turns to the orchard rebels. “We have to retreat. Reinforcements might still come.”

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