Chapter 1 

Lysandra

I taste blood in my mouth, coppery and thick. My own? Someone else’s? Hard to tell after the carnage I’ve just witnessed. My head throbs, my vision blurs, and yet I fight to keep my spine straight. The Dark Elf guard behind me yanks on the chains around my wrists, forcing me deeper into the courtyard of Pyrthos Fortress.

I stumble. The cobblestones are slick with mud and gore—remnants of the rebellion I led, now lying in twisted heaps around me. My left shoulder throbs where a crossbow bolt grazed me earlier, but I grit my teeth and push the pain aside. Crumpling is the one thing I refuse to do, not when my people died hoping I could achieve something greater than this humiliation.

The fortress courtyard sprawls beneath a sky streaked with orange and purple, the final throes of daylight reflected on the black walls. Pyrthos is infamous for these high battlements of polished obsidian that glimmer like a predator’s eyes. Dark Elf soldiers cluster around makeshift pyres, disposing of human corpses. My stomach churns at the sight. In the distance, I see a few battered survivors being dragged into one of the side gates. That’s the last glimpse I get before a soldier shoves my head down.

“Move.” His voice grates on my nerves. He’s tall, even by Dark Elf standards, with coarse silver hair braided tight against his scalp. His gauntlet presses hard into my shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain from me.

I swallow the urge to spit at him. The chain around my wrists rattles, reminding me that if I act on my fury right now, I’ll gain nothing but a swift blow to the skull. Instead, I force my gaze up, letting him see the hatred in my eyes. “I’m moving,” I manage through clenched teeth.

He grunts, obviously unimpressed. “You rebel scum. Should’ve executed you along with the rest.”

“I’d love to watch you try,” I snap, earning myself a sharp twist of the chain. My wrists scream in protest.

I’m dragged forward, across the courtyard where the swirling insignia of the Hunter—the deity revered in Pyrthos—stares up from the mosaic on the ground. I make out the shape of a great hound mid-pounce, carved in black stone. All around me, Dark Elves stand tall, their pointed ears and silver hair marking them as creatures of lethal grace. They look at me with a mixture of fascination and contempt, whispering behind gauntleted hands or twisted smiles.

I clench my jaw. Let them whisper. My rebellion may be in tatters, but the fire in my chest refuses to die. I will not kneel. Not here, not now, not ever.

A contingent of guards stands by an inner portcullis. One of them steps forward. She’s slender, her obsidian skin glistening under the flame of nearby torches. Her violet eyes flick over me, calculating. “This is Lysandra Riven?” she asks the soldier holding my chain.

He nods. “Captured her while her rebels tried breaching the farmland gates. Killed at least a dozen of our men in the skirmish.”

Her gaze shifts to me. I meet it head-on, refusing to lower my eyes. “You cost us many soldiers,” she says softly, an undercurrent of danger in each syllable. “King Throsh won’t let such insolence go unanswered.”

My pulse hammers. I recall the farmland blazing at dawn, the wards flickering as we tried to sabotage them, the Dark Elf knights converging faster than we could react. Someone must have tipped them off. My people never stood a chance. The rage swirling in my gut threatens to boil over. “I don’t answer to your king,” I say, barely managing to keep my voice steady.

Her mouth curves in a slow sneer. “Then you’ll answer to Prince Xelith Vaeranthe.”

I’ve heard that name whispered among humans—an exiled prince rumored to be as cunning as he is cruel. Some say he struck a bargain with one of the thirteen Dark Elven gods sleeping under the crust of Protheka, granting him power over shadows. Others claim he was banished for treason, stripped of his titles but still clinging to influence. Either way, he’s dangerous. I can practically taste the wariness of the guards when they mention him.

The soldier tugs on my manacles again, pulling me toward a flight of worn stone steps. I hazard a glance over my shoulder at the courtyard. Blood pools in shallow depressions, bodies heaped near the walls, waiting to be discarded like trash. The sight rips at my heart.

I failed them. The thought stings like acid. I fought so hard to unify small groups of rebels scattered across the farmland. We’d dreamed of a day when humans wouldn’t labor under the lash, wouldn’t live or die by the whims of these elves. For a moment, it had almost felt possible.

“Stop gawking,” the soldier snaps, dragging me forward. We climb the steps leading to an imposing set of double doors. Massive iron knockers shaped like coiled serpents hang there. At a curt command from one of the guards, the doors swing inward, revealing a corridor lit by flickering torches. The air inside smells of incense and old stone.

They march me down a hallway lined with tapestries displaying hunts and battles, all from a Dark Elf perspective. I see stylized images of humans cowering or kneeling in surrender. My hands ball into fists around the chain, the iron biting into my skin. One day, I vow, we’ll tear these down.

We come to a second set of doors guarded by four soldiers. They tense at our approach, spears angled forward. One of them—tall, with a shimmering black cloak—steps up to the soldier holding me. “Her?”

The soldier nods. “Yes. Prince Xelith’s orders are to bring her in alive.”

“Interesting.” The cloaked guard glances at me. “He must have a use for her.”

Before I can snap some retort, they unlatch the doors and wave us inside. I step into a grand hall, the ceiling arching so high it fades into darkness. A chandelier fashioned from twisted iron rods and glowing mana-stones casts a cold light, illuminating the mosaic beneath my feet. This one depicts the Hunter guiding an arrow toward a fleeing stag—another testament to Pyrthos’s savage devotion.

Scattered around the hall are plush chairs and settees upholstered in dark velvet. It could almost be mistaken for a royal lounge, if not for the fact that each occupant is armed. A hush falls as I enter. I sense curious eyes on me, some gleaming with sadistic interest, others with idle disdain. Every nerve in my body screams to fight or flee, but the chain restricting my wrists keeps me in check.

A figure at the far side of the hall rises from a carved wooden seat. He’s dressed in obsidian-black armor layered with delicate silver filigree, each swirl reminiscent of arcane runes. His hair, stark white, falls past his shoulders in a silken curtain. His skin is dark as midnight, and a series of ornate markings—silver war sigils—adorn his forearms. Even from a distance, his presence seems to command the room.

I know who he must be: Prince Xelith Vaeranthe. Exile or not, the power rolling off him is palpable. He descends a few steps, dark boots clicking on the polished floor. His eyes lock on me, and I swear they glimmer with faint amusement.

He stops a short distance away, crossing his arms over his chest. “So you’re the one who thought attacking Pyrthos was a wise move.” His voice is low, carrying a dangerous resonance that echoes in the silence. “Lysandra Riven, I presume.”

I lift my chin, ignoring how my raw wrists burn. “I prefer not to hide my face behind a fortress and an army, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Soft laughter breaks from a few spectators. Xelith doesn’t react with anger. Instead, his lips curve in a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Bold words, coming from someone in chains.”

The soldier holding my chain clears his throat. “My prince, the council demanded we make an example of her. But you—”

“I know what the council demanded,” Xelith interrupts. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “They’ll have to wait.” He flicks his hand in a gesture so casual it’s almost dismissive. “Bring her into the lesser hall. I’d like a private conversation.”

The soldier tenses. “Should I inform the high guard?”

“No need.” Xelith’s voice remains smooth, but there’s an unmistakable undercurrent of command. “Just do as you’re told.”

The tension in the room thickens. No one dares question him further. With a jerk on my chain, the soldier hauls me along, and we follow Xelith through a side archway. The corridor beyond is narrower, less lavish than the grand hall, but still lined with flickering sconces shaped like serpentine creatures. My gaze flicks between them, searching for weaknesses, hidden passages—anything. But everything seems meticulously crafted.

I catch glimpses of more wounded humans in side alcoves, either unconscious or shackled to iron rings in the walls. My stomach twists, but I force myself to keep marching. I memorize each turn, each detail of the fortress’s layout. If I manage to break free, I’ll need every advantage I can glean.

We come to a wooden door carved with swirling runes. Xelith pushes it open and steps aside, indicating the soldier should take me in. I enter a smaller room with a high, narrow window near the ceiling that spills in a meager wash of evening light. A single table stands in the center, its surface scratched and stained. Two chairs face each other. Tapestries with hunting motifs line the walls, but they’re muted here—less extravagant than in the main hall.

The soldier shoves me forward, and I catch myself against the table’s edge, biting back a grimace. Before I can recover, Xelith’s voice cuts through the space.

“Leave us.”

“Yes, my prince.” The soldier drops the chain and backs away, footsteps echoing. The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with Xelith.

I straighten, my wrists still bound, chains dangling between them. My heart drums in my chest, but I mask my expression schooled into cold composure. Prince or not, I refuse to show him weakness. If he expects tears or groveling, he’ll be sorely disappointed.

He moves with a predator’s grace, circling the table until he stands directly across from me. A flick of his eyes takes in the bruises on my forearms, the tear in my stained leather pants, the dried blood matting my raven-black hair. I clench my fists, resisting the urge to hide my injuries from his scrutiny.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair nearest me.

I lift my chin. “I’ll stand.”

One silver brow arcs. “As you wish.” He sets a hand on the back of the other chair, regarding me in a silence that grows more tense by the second. At last, he speaks. “Word of your rebellion reached me weeks ago. Raids on storehouses, sabotage of farmland wards, incitement of slave uprisings. All led by a human with a gift for uniting the desperate.”

My throat tightens, but I keep my face impassive. “Is that a compliment?”

“I suppose it could be.” He taps his fingers on the chair, a slow, thoughtful rhythm. “Your forces spilled a lot of Dark Elf blood, Lysandra. The council is howling for your execution. Yet here you stand, very much alive.”

I snort. “I figure that’s a temporary condition.” Even so, I can’t fully mask the flicker of hope inside me. If he meant to kill me outright, he wouldn’t bother with conversation.

He studies me for a heartbeat longer, then exhales a soft laugh—quiet but laced with something ominous. “Not necessarily. I have… interests that could benefit from your continued existence.”

My shoulders go rigid. “If you think I’ll betray my people, you’re wasting your time.”

He steps around the table, coming closer. My instincts scream to back away, but I hold my ground. I can’t show him I’m intimidated, no matter how imposing his presence might be. He’s a head taller than me, lithe but radiating coiled strength. The silver markings on his forearms catch the torchlight, shimmering like serpents.

His gaze slides across my face, lingering on the bruise near my left cheek. “I’m not asking for betrayal. I’m offering an alternative to a public execution. Cooperation—under certain conditions.”

The chain linking my wrists jangles as I curl my hands into fists. “You can’t seriously believe I’d cooperate with you. Dark Elves have done nothing but enslave and torture humans for centuries.”

His expression remains dispassionate. “And yet, here we are, speaking calmly rather than tearing each other apart. That’s progress, isn’t it?”

I bite down on the inside of my lip. This man is toying with me. I sense it in the casual arrogance of his words, the tilt of his head. But there’s also a strange undercurrent—like he’s truly measuring my worth, testing how far I’ll go. “What do you want?” I demand, voice low.

He brushes a white strand of hair off his shoulder. “For now, I want to know exactly how you rallied so many humans under your banner. Resources, alliances, hidden caches—where did you find the manpower and the nerve to march on Pyrthos?”

A hollow laugh escapes me. “You think I’ll just hand over my secrets? If you’re trying to appear less like a tyrant, you’re failing.”

He huffs a quiet sound, close to amusement. “Very well. Let’s approach this differently. I suspect your rebellion isn’t entirely crushed. Your people won’t stop just because you’re gone, will they?”

My pulse quickens. He might be fishing for names, strategies, anything he can exploit to root out the remaining rebels. “You’ll get nothing from me.”

“Hmm.” He seems unperturbed. “Your defiance is admirable. But defiance alone won’t keep you alive.”

I want to hurl the table at him, rattle these chains like a rabid beast, anything to end this hateful dance. But logic keeps me still. The fresh bruise on my ribs reminds me I’m in no condition for another fight. And for all my bravado, the sight of my dead comrades in the courtyard still haunts me.

“Do you plan to torture me for the information?” I force the question out, refusing to let fear show.

He cocks his head, that silver hair glinting. “Torture is messy and often unreliable. I prefer more nuanced methods. But I won’t pretend to be merciful, Lysandra. You’re valuable only as long as you can provide me with something useful.”

I seethe at his frankness. “And if I refuse to talk? You throw me to the council?”

For a moment, he’s silent. Then he moves closer, so close I catch the faint scent of something cool and sharp, like a midnight breeze off deep water. My heart thuds against my ribs, but I don’t back down.

His voice drops, the tone almost intimate. “Perhaps I keep you for myself. There are many ways a rebel leader could prove entertaining.”

Revulsion and an unexpected flicker of heat coil in my gut. I slam my shoulder forward, ignoring the pain. “Entertaining? You sick bastard.”

He sidesteps just enough to avoid the brunt of my lunge, then snatches the chain between my wrists. The metal digs into my skin, forcing me still. We lock eyes—his glimmer with a predatory light, and I feel the tension rising between us, more savage and immediate than I expected.

“You hate us that much,” he murmurs, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

“More than you can imagine,” I hiss, twisting in his grip. But no matter how I jerk, the chain remains firm in his hand.

He regards me, unblinking. “I’m offering you a chance, Lysandra. While the rest of your rebels die in the dungeons, you might secure at least a semblance of freedom—or bargain for their lives—if you play this right.”

My vision wavers with anger. That’s how he aims to break me—dangling the fate of my people in front of me like bait. I want to scream at him, tear him apart. But the weight of the day’s battle crushes me, and reality seeps in. As long as I’m alive, I can still think, still maneuver. If I die, who will fight for the survivors?

“You want me to cooperate,” I say, forcing my voice to steady. “What does that entail? Me feeding you every last detail of my rebellion so you can finish wiping us out?”

His lips twitch, as if suppressing a wry smile. “Not necessarily. I have little love for the ruling council. I’m an exile for a reason.”

I narrow my eyes. “You think that makes you sympathetic? Save it.”

He doesn’t release the chain, and the closeness is suffocating. I can’t keep him at a safe distance without yanking uselessly on my bindings. Finally, he exhales and lets the chain slip from his fingers, stepping away.

“You’re exhausted,” he says, his voice softening. “The guards told me about your injuries. There’s a washbasin in the adjoining room. Use it. I’ll have a meal brought in.”

I stare at him, heart pounding. Is he truly offering me comfort? My suspicion deepens, but I can’t deny that I’m hungry, parched, and need tending to my wounds.

“This is some trick,” I mutter.

He shrugs, crossing his arms again. “Call it a small kindness—or a strategic move. Either way, refusing it won’t help your cause.” His gaze skims over my battered form. “You’ve proven your spirit. Now prove your intelligence. Restore your strength, and maybe we’ll find common ground.”

I hate that a small part of me sees the logic in his words. If I’m going to help any surviving rebels, I need to stay alive, remain sharp. So I swallow my pride for the moment. “Fine.”

“Good.” He moves toward the door, pausing to glance back at me. “We’ll speak again soon, Lysandra Riven. Think carefully about where your loyalties—and your survival—truly lie.”

With that, he slips out, shutting the door behind him. I listen for a lock, a bolt, any sign that I’m sealed in. But the silence remains, broken only by the distant hum of fortress activity. Testing the handle, I find it locked from outside. Of course.

The chain around my wrists feels heavier somehow, even though he’s no longer holding it. My breath leaves me in a shaky exhale, and I sag against the table. My ribs scream in protest. I press a hand gingerly to my side, wincing at the sticky feel of half-dried blood.

I’m alone now, but I can’t relax. My mind spins with everything that just happened. The aftermath of the battle, the courtyard strewn with corpses, the terrifying possibility that the rest of my people are either dead or in chains. And then there’s Prince Xelith—calm, assured, exiled but still powerful. He claims he has no love for the council, but he’s still a Dark Elf. He still stands for everything I hate.

A small, treacherous voice in my mind whispers that he could be the key to saving whoever remains. If there’s a wedge between him and the other dark elves, maybe I can exploit it. It’s risky. He’s clearly not one to be manipulated easily. But I have few options left.

I slump into one of the chairs, the chain clanking. My stomach knots with hunger, but weariness outstrips it. I press my face in my hands—careful to avoid pressing on the bruises—and let out a shaking breath. My body feels like it’s teetering on a knife’s edge, any movement threatening to tip me into oblivion.

After a moment, I force myself upright and shuffle to the adjoining door. It leads into a small washroom with a tarnished brass basin and a pitcher of water. A narrow slit of a window near the ceiling provides enough light to reveal the grime on my face and arms. My reflection in the water shows a pale, angular face smudged with dirt, storm-gray eyes shadowed by exhaustion, and a mouth set in a grim line. My hair, usually a sleek raven black, hangs in tangled knots.

I pour water into the basin and dip my fingers in. The chill jolts me, but I bite back a gasp, letting the sensation ground me. Cleaning myself is difficult with the chain restricting my wrists, but I manage to splash the worst of the dirt and blood away. The motion sends twinges of pain through my shoulder and side, but it’s better than allowing my wounds to fester. I dab at a gash on my forearm, wincing when the scab peels. No bandages, no salve—just water. Typical.

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.