Page 8 of Bound In Shadow

“Xelith,” she calls, voice rough. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yes.” I glance over my shoulder.

She studies my silhouette in the torchlight. “Why are you exiled?”

A moment passes, and I consider how to answer. Finally, I give a low shrug. “I refused to kill someone the council deemed a threat. They labeled it treason.”

Her stormy eyes flicker with something resembling understanding—or maybe just curiosity. “So you’ve defied your own people before?”

“In a manner of speaking,” I admit. “Be careful, Lysandra. In my world, defiance comes at a steep cost.”

Without waiting for a response, I slip out, shutting the door behind me. My footsteps echo in the corridor, and I feel the tension sliding from my shoulders. Adrenaline still thrums in my veins. Conversation with her is like a dance, each word a feint or parry.

She’s exactly the spark I need to shake up Pyrthos—and I’m exactly the shield she requires to stay alive. If we can maintain this precarious alliance, it might lead somewhere… interesting.

As I make my way through the labyrinthine halls, I mull the possibilities. The council wants results. The farmland must be pacified. If Lysandra cooperates, we can orchestrate a scenario where humans produce what the city needs without rebellionflaring into open conflict. That might buy me the leverage to reclaim my standing—or crush the council from within if I choose.

I pass groups of soldiers, ignoring their salutes. They give me a wide berth, half in respect, half in fear. My exile status doesn’t change the fact that I’m still dangerous, still a noble with hidden influence. Let them whisper behind my back. Let them wonder what I’m planning.

Descending another staircase, I step into a wide corridor that leads toward the fortress’s western wing. Here, the stone changes color slightly, a relic of earlier construction. Gaps in the architecture reveal dim corners, potential hiding spots. I’ve used them before. The memory draws a small grin to my lips.

At the corridor’s end stands a locked door bearing the crest of House Vaeranthe—my house. It’s a stylized serpent coiled around a sword. Once upon a time, that symbol commanded respect across Protheka. Now, many views it as a sign of a disgraced line.

I push the door open, entering my private chambers. The space is austere by noble standards: a single large bed, a wardrobe filled with dark attire, and a circular window overlooking the city’s lights. I discard my armor piece by piece, unbuckling the intricate clasps at my shoulders and waist. Underneath, I wear a fitted tunic that clings to my form, marked with faint traces of dried blood—someone else’s, or maybe my own from earlier scuffles.

Setting the armor aside, I stand by the window. The city glimmers in the distance, lanterns casting a soft glow on the winding streets. My reflection in the glass reveals my obsidian features, angular cheekbones, and silver hair tumbling in loose waves around my shoulders. The war sigils on my arms catch the moonlight, a tangible reminder of my noble birth.

Yet regardless of how often I see that reflection, I can’t shake the sense of displacement. I’m here, in a fortress that should be under my command, but in truth, I’m an intruder in my own kingdom. The council’s puppet, or so they think.

I press a hand against the cold glass. Thoughts drift back to Lysandra, tied up in that chamber. She’s a wild card—one I can’t fully predict but can’t dismiss, either. She could be my greatest triumph or my downfall.

A low chuckle escapes me, humorless and dark. What is it about her that’s so compelling? The defiance, yes, but there’s also a sense of an untapped power within her. The way she looked at me, unbroken despite her injuries, suggests she might do more than just survive.

I spin away from the window, heading toward a small cabinet where I keep a pitcher of water and a goblet. Pouring myself a drink, I mull over how best to handle the council’s envoy tonight. They’ll demand proof that I’ve subdued the rebels. Perhaps I’ll imply that Lysandra is already giving me information. Let them believe we’re on the cusp of stamping out the last embers of resistance.

Of course, it’s a delicate balancing act. If they suspect I’m withholding details—like my plan to use Lysandra for my own ends—they might turn on me quickly. Then again, I’ve maneuvered through these intrigues before. My exile taught me caution.

Sipping the water, I pace to my desk. A single candle burns there, illuminating scattered notes. I scratch out a few lines of strategy, detailing a plausible explanation for how I plan to “reeducate” the prisoners. Words that the council wants to hear, but will serve as a cover for what I’m truly aiming to achieve: a subtle shift in the power dynamic, one that benefits me… and maybe spares more humans from the slaughter.

It’s risky. But risk is the one language the council respects. They fear what they can’t control, and they don’t fully control me—or Lysandra.

A rap at the door breaks my concentration. Rhazien’s voice calls from the corridor. “My prince? The council envoy has arrived.”

I blow out the candle, smirking at the darkness. “Very well.”

As I cross the threshold of my room, I steal one last glance at my reflection in the window. I look calm, composed—every inch the poised Dark Elf prince. Inside, tension coils in my stomach. The night’s negotiations will be challenging, but I’m no stranger to deception.

Let the games begin. I’ll bend the council to my advantage, I’ll keep Lysandra breathing—for now—and I’ll see if this unusual alliance can forge a path neither side expects. With a final exhale, I step into the corridor, ready to face whatever demands the envoy throws at me.

No matter what, I refuse to bow to a fate others have chosen. This is my domain to reclaim, and Lysandra may well be the key piece I need. If she thinks she’s the only one dancing with danger, she’s mistaken. We both stand on a razor’s edge, balancing between ambition and destruction.

For me, that edge is exactly where I thrive.

3

LYSANDRA

Iwake to the slam of a door reverberating through the walls. My head throbs, and my eyes feel gritty from the restless half-sleep that’s become my reality since my capture. For a moment, I think I’m still in the smaller chamber off the lesser hall, but then I realize I’m being dragged upright by two Dark Elf guards, each gripping one of my arms. My wrists remain manacled. The chain between them rattles, a too-familiar sound.

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