Rakhal Karthan. The shadow-orc. The second prince of Varak. The one who had stood over her bed with death in his hand, then stolen her away into the night.
Her stomach tightened. Her mouth went dry.
She was in his stronghold. In his bed. Wrapped in his shirt.
She had eaten the food he'd brought her—the rich, savory stew, the strangely soothing tea.
And she wasn't dead. Not sick.
In fact... she felt rested.
The ache in her body from that mad journey across the plains had ebbed. The shivering cold was gone. Warmth clung to her skin, seeping from the hearth that still crackled faintly, keeping the stone chamber from freezing like the rest of the stronghold.
How strange.
She drew a slow breath, her heart quickening. What time was it?
And—wherewas he?
She sat up straighter, then swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cool stone floor. Her body tensed, nerves prickling awake. She rose, cautiously at first, then all at once, standing in the dim chamber, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears.
Wide awake now.
Heart pounding.
It was almost unbelievable. The firelight, the warmth, the silence pressing close—it could have been a dream.
But it wasn't.
What was she supposed to do now? Simply sit here until he returned?
It was ridiculous. She, Eliza Ducanis—Queen of Maidan—reduced to a captive waiting meekly in a stranger's bedchamber.
Her jaw tightened.No.
She knew better than to try the door. Not yet. She had no illusions about what waited outside, nor about the kind of reception a human—their queen—would receive if she stumbled into the stronghold unescorted. And so far, the prince hadn't been cruel. Harsh, yes. Unyielding. But not unreasonable.
Still. She couldn't waste the time simply waiting.
She could look around.
Get a sense of the place. Search for details, clues, anything that might tell her what kind of creature he truly was beneath the mask of silence and shadow.
Knowledge was the only weapon left to her. The only thing that could give her any kind of edge.
She moved quietly through the bedchamber, her bare feet whispering against the cold stone floor. The nightgown clung to her, the hem whipping against her ankles as she crossed to the heavy drapes.
Her hands trembled faintly as she grasped the thick fabric. Then, with a sudden tug, she pulled them aside.
Light flooded in at once.
She blinked, raising a hand to shield her eyes until they adjusted. Beyond the tall window lay the heart of the stronghold—a wide courtyard of stone, its surface worn and scarred. A training ground, perhaps, or a place for gatherings.
In the center stood a broad circle etched into the rock, dark lines cut deep and deliberate. She didn't know what it meant, but it hummed with something that prickled her skin.
At the far side, she caught movement. Two guards—hulking orcs, broad-shouldered, tusks gleaming—patrolled the perimeter. One shifted, glancing toward the window.
Her heart lurched.
