But she hardly noticed.
Because her attention was immediately wrenched to the figure on the floor.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Broad shoulders, long dark hair spilling loose, the sheer bulk of him unmistakable.
Rakhal.
Collapsed on the cold stone, his frame curled slightly as though the weight of it all had driven him down. The shadows that clung to him were faint, ragged, dissipating in the morning light that slanted across his body.
Eliza could only stare, disbelieving.
The shadow-orc. Death incarnate. The creature who had stood over her with a blade at her throat, who had carried her through the night like she weighed nothing?—
Now sprawled helpless on the floor of his own chambers.
She froze, trembling slightly, before forcing herself closer, step by step.
He wasn't dead.
His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, each breath deep and deliberate. Relief—or perhaps disappointment—slipped through her in a confusing rush.
She crouched slightly, studying him.
He lay utterly still, his great frame unmoving. The morning light revealed him differently than the firelight had—not a creature of shadow and threat, but something almost vulnerable in repose. His tusks curved elegantly from his lower lip, their ivory surface marked with fine etchings she hadn't noticed before—perhaps clan symbols or marks of rank. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, continuing down to his cheekbone, paler against his gray-green skin. His jaw, usually clenched in stern control, was relaxed now, revealing the strangely harmonious balance of his features. Without the intensity of his gaze or therigid set of his shoulders, she could see the clean lines of his profile, the surprising length of his eyelashes, the way his hair—black as midnight—framed his face like strands of raw silk.
Her pulse fluttered with mild alarm. Was he all right? Had something happened after he left her?
She searched for signs—blood, wounds, strain. But there was none. His chest lifted and fell steadily, as though he were simply sleeping.
Just sleeping.
Cautiously, she edged closer, every step measured, fearing he might stir. Surely he would—he always seemed to sense her, to know. But he didn't.
Defenseless.
Her gaze flicked away, restless, scanning the chamber. Shelves lined with books, spines dark with age. A massive table, roughly hewn, papers and maps spread across its surface, a single simple chair tucked in close. Beyond, a tall window stood open, the sky vast and clear, clouds scudding lazily across an expanse of blue.
And there, on the table, was...
A dagger, resting in its sheath.
She could kill him.
The realization struck like a blow.
Right now, with him lying defenseless before her, all his strength and shadows useless against the simple weight of steel.
The fate of the war. The fate of Maidan. The fate of everything...
It could all be decided here, in this quiet chamber, with one single thrust of her hand.
For better, or for worse?
Her eyes lingered on the dagger, the thought burning hot and insistent.
She could take it, could drive it into his chest and end him where he lay.
