Thalorin’s lips curved faintly, though it was no smile. “Your cousin, Lord Maeron, will be installed as king. A man the lords trust, a man the soldiers will follow. And one who knows better than to make dangerous bargains with orc princes.”
The invisible weight pressed harder, pinning Eliza’s shoulders.
She said nothing. The words burned behind her teeth, but the compulsion held her silence like iron. Instead, a promise folded itself into the hollow of her chest—cold, precise, inevitable.
I will destroy Thalorin for this.
Only one way presented itself, simple and brutal in its clarity. Thalorin’s grip—legal, magical, political—rested on two pillars: the Tower’s sway over the council, and the hostage lesson she’d made of the shadow prince. Break the first and the second crumbles; free the second and the first’s leverage fractures.
Rakhal lay in the dungeon. Bound, wounded, warded—and for all his danger, he was the key.
Eliza let the thought settle, tasting the impossibility and the promise in it. The castle hummed around them, every corridor a thread of power Thalorin had already begun to braid. Outside, the drums of war beat closer each hour. Inside, a chessboard had been set and pieces moved without her consent.
She forced herself to breathe. The compulsion pressed on her like a tide, but the vow in her bones did not yield. When the Tower loosened its hold, when the guards tired and the mages turned their backs, she would act.
For now, she was constrained—silenced, watched,indisposed—but she would have time enough to plan. Rakhal in the dark below was both danger and instrument. To reach him would be to reach Thalorin’s heart.
She closed her eyes, not in surrender, but to keep the shape of the plan safe.
“You will be kept here under guard,” Thalorin informed her, voice smooth as polished steel. “You will be afforded the comforts you need—your father was my friend, after all—but you will not leave the tower. Not until the war is over. You may have one maidservant to attend to you. She will come once in the morning and once in the evening. Food will be delivered from the kitchens. Business will carry on as usual.”
Eliza’s mind raced. Of all the maidservants, only one came to her at once—one who might be convinced to help her, discreet and loyal where others would whisper.
“Give me Brenna,” she said.
Thalorin’s head inclined, the motion deliberate, her dark braids sliding over one shoulder. Something close to pity flickered in her eyes, brief as candlelight.
“You can have Brenna,” she said at last, the words edged with dismissal, as though Eliza’s choice of servant was beneath notice. “A trivial matter.”
The air shifted.
The invisible weight pressing down on Eliza—sharp as a claw at her throat, cold as iron in her veins—vanished all at once.
She gasped, breath spilling free in a rush she hadn’t meant to give. Muscles trembled in the aftermath of restraint, her body remembering the suffocating grip of Thalorin’s power. She forced her spine straight, her chin high, masking the sting of humiliation with regal calm.
She would not show weakness. Not before this woman.
And yet, the relief flooded through her all the same, treacherous and undeniable.
Her gaze flicked to the high windows, where sunlight filtered pale against the stone, and for one reckless heartbeat she wished Rakhal stood there instead. His shadows had been no less terrifying, no less invasive—but they had been his. His power had coiled around her like a shield as much as aweapon, dark and possessive, never mocking, never belittling. Against Thalorin’s cold sorcery, she longed—gods help her—for that ruthless shroud of shadow, for his formidable presence to counter this woman’s disdain.
The thought burned shamefully in her chest.
She crushed it.
She pushed the thought of Rakhal away as if it were a dangerous thing—because it was.I can’t yearn for him now. First I have to reach him.The prayer was private and sharp.
Thalorin’s mouth twitched with a thin amusement. She straightened, cloak whispering against the stone, and made as if to leave. Before her foot touched the corridor, she looked back with a smile that held no warmth.
“I thank you for delivering the orc,” she said, voice low and tightly polite, a mockery dressed as courtesy. “He will be studied, and then discarded. We have no need for him as a hostage.” Her eyes narrowed, calculating. “The Varak made their choice. They tried to infiltrate Maidan with deception—now they will pay for their miscalculation.”
Eliza felt each syllable like the crack of a whip. Her fists curled beneath the tablecloth so hard her nails bit her palms. Heat flared in her face—not from fear, she told herself, but from a rising cold she could not name.If they break him,she thought,if they break him while I watch…The image was a living thing that shoved air from her lungs.
Thalorin dipped her head once, then added, with a cruel precision, “The one useful thing you did, while you were queen, was to convince the king of the Ketheri to ride to our aid. They will arrive soon. The Varak will be annihilated.” Her gaze sharpened, and for the first time, there was no pretense of civility—only the certainty of a sentence already written. “Now, you will simply watch.”
The door loomed at her back like a promise. Thalorin turned, cloak swishing, and the corridor swallowed her like dark water. The bolts of the chamber door thudded as she left; her footsteps faded. Silence flooded the room afterward, thick and ridiculous.
Eliza let herself breathe then—just enough to keep her from fainting. Relief and dread braided through her, indistinguishable.They’ll study him.The words echoed.They’ll cut him open for knowledge they don’t comprehend. They’ll feed the shadows to scholars who wear crowns and call it science.Rage, sudden and cold, licked at the edges of that thought.
