Ryleth’s weight shifted as he leaned back, his fingers finally releasing Ashterion’s throat. “You always were ambitious, little sovereign.” His eyes glittered with malicious amusement. “Though I must admit, I’m surprised by your... eagerness.”

  Xyliria’s laughter filled the room. “My husband wants to play torturer.” She moved closer, her crimson skirts brushing against the edge of the bed. “How delightful.”

  Her eyes met Ashterion’s, and the calculation in them made his shadows curl tighter beneath his skin.

  “Very well,” she said, trailing a finger down his chest. “You may have your chance with the human. Break her, and I’ll be impressed.” Her nail dug into his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. “But if you fail to break her, you’ll spend a month with Ryleth. And then, you will watch him break the human—observe how it’s truly done.”

  Ashterion’s blood turned to ice. A month. With Ryleth. The longest he’d ever endured was two weeks, and he’d nearly lost his fucking mind. And the thought of watching him work his cruelty on the female... Ashterion clenched his jaw against the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

  “I understand,” he said, betraying nothing of the turmoil churning inside him.

  Xyliria’s smile widened. “Wonderful. You may begin tomorrow.”

  Ryleth’s fingers traced the line of blood Xyliria had drawn, smearing it across Ashterion’s skin. “Such ambition,” he murmured. “I do hope you fail. It’s been far too long since I’ve had you properly under my care.”

  Ashterion said nothing. He’d bought himself time—time to figure out what to do with her, how to protect her without revealing his intentions.

  “Now,” Xyliria said, her voice dropping to something honey-sweet and venomous, “I believe I’ve indulged this conversation long enough.” She stepped away from the bed, smoothing her crimson skirts with practiced elegance. “The border scouts reported movement near the eastern pass. I should attend to it personally.”

  The eastern pass meant the Luceren reinforcements were attempting to mobilise. It also meant Xyliria would be gone for at least a day, possibly two. He might have more freedom to manoeuvre, to find a way to protect the human without revealing his hand.

  She leaned down, her perfume suffocating as she pressed her lips to his. “I’ll leave you with Ryleth,” she murmured against his skin. “He’s earned his time with you, after all. Consider it... motivation for your task tomorrow.”

  Ashterion’s heart slammed against his ribs as Xyliria’s footsteps faded, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the chamber. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the rustle of silk as Ryleth shifted his weight.

  “Alone at last,” Ryleth purred. “How nostalgic.”

  Ashterion closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to remain steady as Ryleth’s weight settled more fully against him. The male’s pale fingers traced lazy patterns across his chest, following old scars with intimate familiarity.

  “How long has it been, little sovereign?” Ryleth’s voice was a whisper against Ashterion’s skin.

  “Too long.” The silk ropes bit deeper into Ashterion’s wrists as his hands involuntarily clenched into fists.

  “Too long indeed,” Ryleth murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against Ashterion’s throat. “You’ve forgotten what we share, I think.”

  Ashterion didn’t respond. He let his mind drift away from the weight pressing against him, from the fingers tracing patterns of old pain across his skin. He had perfected this technique centuries ago—the careful separation of consciousness from his body, a retreat into the furthest corners of his mind where even Ryleth couldn’t follow.

  The first touch of pain registered distantly, like thunder from a storm miles away.

  52

  Silence had settled over the cell. Not the peaceful kind—no, this was the kind of silence that crushed in from all sides. A silence that watched. That listened. That waited.

  The others were asleep, their exhaustion pinning them down in the dark. Even Varyth, whose tension never truly faded, had succumbed, his breathing slow and measured where he lay against the farthest wall. Darian had one arm draped over his own eyes, his face turned away.

  Cindrissian was still as death itself, his breathing so silent I almost questioned whether he was breathing at all. Fenric sprawled nearby, his usually pristine form now streaked with dirt and dried blood. Linc lay as close as propriety allowed, their hands next to each other in the lightest touch.

  But we were awake.

  Shaelith. Brynelle. Me.

  I twisted the strip of fabric in my hands, wrapping it tightly around the shard of bone I’d found in the corner of the cell. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

  Shaelith’s voice was a whisper, so cutting it needed no volume to make an impact. “Are you sure about this?”

  I let out a breath, finishing the final wrap before flexing my fingers, testing the makeshift weapon. It would do.

  “Oh, absolutely not,” I said, dry as dust. “This is a terrible idea.”

  A ghost of a smirk tugged at Brynelle’s lips.

  Shaelith huffed, adjusting her position beside me, shifting her weight. “At least you’re self-aware.”

  Brynelle’s whiskey-coloured eyes gleamed in the dim torchlight. “On the bright side, if this fails, at least we’ll be dead before we have to hear them say I told you so.”

  I swallowed a laugh, though my chest twisted. “Now that’s the real incentive.”

  “I hate that I agree.” Shaelith shook her head.

  We all did.

  Because if the males found out what we were about to do, they’d shut it down before we could even finish explaining.

  Varyth and Linc, with their strategic minds, would tell us it was reckless, that we needed more information, more time. That we couldn’t afford a mistake.

  Darian, whose rage had only grown wilder in the days we’d been here, would grab my wrist, shake his head, and refuse to let us take another step toward the door.

  Cindrissian wouldn’t even argue. He’d just look at us. One look. And that would be enough.

  And Fenric?

  Fenric would sigh. Deeply. And then he’d make some snide remark before physically hauling me away from the door.

  But they weren’t awake.

  And we didn’t have time.

  I looked at Brynelle, whose fingers hovered over the latch. She hadn’t touched it yet, hadn’t made a sound, but there was something electric in the air. A single breath away from action.

  Shaelith’s gaze flicked to me, then to the males, ensuring they were deep in sleep. A shared understanding.

  “One chance,” Brynelle said.

  I nodded. “Then let’s make it count.”

  The words hung in the air for a heartbeat. Then Brynelle moved.

  She reached for Shaelith, hand cupping her jaw, thumb brushing across the line of her cheekbone, and for a moment, the cell, the sleeping males, the impossible plan—all of it vanished.

  There was only them.

  Shaelith’s breath hitched. Her pale violet eyes softened in a way I’d never seen before, the usual razor edge melting away. Her fingers found Brynelle’s wrist, holding tight, anchoring herself.

  “I love you,” Brynelle whispered, the words barely audible but carved deep.

  Shaelith’s composure cracked. Just for a second. Just enough.

  “Don’t,” she said, voice rough. “Don’t say it like that. Like it’s goodbye.”

  “It’s not goodbye.” Brynelle’s forehead pressed against hers, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. “It’s a promise. That no matter what happens out there, you’re the reason I’m still fighting.”

  Shaelith closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, they shone. “I love you too,” she said, fierce and broken all at once. “So much it terrifies me.”

  And then Shaelith kissed her.

  Hard and desperate—like she was trying to memorise the taste of Brynelle’s lips, the warmth of her skin, the way her body fit against hers in the dark. Like this might be the last time, and she refused to waste a single second of it.

  Brynelle’s hand slid into Shaelith’s white hair, tangling in the strands as she kissed her back. Their mouths moved together, a conversation spoken in touches and sighs and the trembling press of bodies that had seen too much war and not enough peace.

  I looked away.

  Not because I didn’t want to see it. But because it felt sacred. Private. A moment stolen from the jaws of death, and I had no right to witness it.

  When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Brynelle rested her forehead against Shaelith’s one last time. “Ready?” she whispered.

  Shaelith nodded, her hand clutching Brynelle’s wrist. “Always.”

  I exhaled slowly, forcing myself back into the present. Back into the plan. Back into the cold reality that we were about to walk straight into danger with nothing but a bone shard, stolen keys, and the reckless hope that usually got people killed.

  Brynelle slid the thin, broken piece of metal she had stolen—when, I had no idea, but gods bless her for it—between the lock and the door frame.

  I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Shaelith, Bryn?”

  Brynelle glanced back instantly, Shaelith pausing beside her.

  I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “If I die in here⁠—”

  Brynelle’s face twisted with immediate protest. “Don’t.”

  “No.” I held up a hand. “Listen.”

  They froze, silent, so I pushed on.

  “If I die,” I said again, slower this time, steadying my breath, my heart, my resolve, “I want you to look after Mireth and Eryx.”

  Shaelith’s brows lifted, her mouth parting. Brynelle blinked rapidly, before a hundred emotions flashed across her face in the space of a breath.

  “You’d be excellent mothers,” I said, and it nearly cracked me open. “They’re… they’re so small. And scared. And they shouldn’t have to grow up without someone who will fight for them.” My voice broke. I hated that it did.

  Shaelith scoffed. “We’re in a Nyxarian death trap and you’re talking about playdates.” But I saw it—beneath the sarcasm, the harsh edge of fear and heartache. Words that she didn’t want to speak, because speaking made it real.

  Brynelle didn’t waver. She stepped closer, grasping my arm, her grip gentle. “If that’s what you want,” she whispered. “Of course. We would. I swear it.”

  Shaelith didn’t speak. She looked at me over her shoulder, her lips a tight line. And then, the smallest nod.

  A promise.

  I nodded back.

  Brynelle turned back to the door. The piece of metal wasn’t a perfect tool. It didn’t need to be. It just had to hold.

  One breath.

  Two.

  A click.

  The door creaked open. Every second stretched into an eternity.

  Brynelle’s head snapped toward the corridor. The guards were there but not looking our way. Their laughter filled the damp air, bouncing off the stone walls.

  They didn’t know.

  Not yet.

  My fingers curled tighter around the bone fragment. Better than nothing.

  Now or never.

  I struck first.

  One step. Silent.

  The first guard didn’t have time to breathe before I was on him.

  My hand clamped over his mouth, stifling the beginnings of a warning. The bone dagger was crude, but effective as it sank into his throat. A quick, brutal slice. Heat bloomed over my arm, blood spilling fast and thick.

  The body sagged against me, dead weight. I let it drop.

  Brynelle was already moving.

  The second guard had started to turn when she struck.

  Her stolen bit of metal drove into his neck. A strangled gurgle. A shuddering gasp. A final, failing twitch of muscle, then silence.

  The bodies hit the ground.

  We didn’t breathe. Not until we were sure the noise hadn’t carried, that no more footsteps would follow.

  Shaelith exhaled, kneeling beside one of the fallen guards. She stripped a blade from his hip, its weight settling easily into her palm. A proper weapon. A real one.

  Brynelle nudged the other guard with her foot before crouching down, pulling a second blade free from his belt. She turned, offering it to me.

  I shook my head. Gestured for her to take it.

  Her brows pulled together, but she didn’t argue. Not out loud, anyway. Instead, she huffed, rolling her eyes before tucking the weapon into her grip.

  We moved. The corridor ahead stretched long and quiet, the stone damp with condensation, torchlight flickering along the far wall. I could hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, a rhythm that seemed too loud, too alive.

  But we kept moving.

  The corridors were too bright. Too many open spaces. Too many places to get caught.

  We moved like shadows, each step measured, each breath controlled. Shaelith led, her movements fluid and deliberate. She gripped the stolen blade so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Brynelle stayed low, fingers twitching, her entire body coiled and waiting for the next strike.

  Every turn brought us closer.

  We took another.

  Brynelle lunged, dagger flashing. The blade sank into the soldier’s gut, hot and wet. A strangled sound escaped his lips. Shaelith was already there, driving her blade into his throat before he could scream.

  The body crumpled. I paused long enough to grab the blade at his belt.

  Closer. Closer. The scent of night, fresh air. Just a few more turns.

  Just—

  Shouts. Boots.

  The clang of weapons drawn.

  Shit. We’d been seen.

  A burst of movement from the end of the corridor. A guard rounding the corner. Another behind him. More coming.

  We ran.

  Straight toward them.

  I twisted in time to meet the first guard head-on.

  He swung. I ducked. My blade caught him under the ribs, tearing through flesh. He gasped, his body jerking against mine as I yanked the knife free.

  Shaelith sidestepped the second guard, her blade flashing. She parried—twisted—the male stumbled, and she slashed through his hamstring. He crumpled with a guttural cry, clutching his leg as blood pooled beneath him.

  Brynelle was already sprinting.

  Fast. Too fast for them to stop her, but if she could get outside⁠—

  If one of us made it⁠—

  A wall of black-armoured Nyxarian warriors appeared ahead.

  Brynelle skidded to a stop. Sword up. Teeth bared. Shaelith turned on her heel, blade raised, but the corridor was closing in. Guards poured from every direction.

  We were surrounded. But we didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

  We turned on them. Blades, fury, blood.

  I drove my dagger into the throat of one soldier, twisting hard, the cartilage giving with a wet snap beneath my grip. I yanked it free, pivoting to block another strike.

  Shaelith and Brynelle caught my eye as I moved.

  They didn’t fight side by side.

  They moved as one.

  Not just in sync—interwoven.

  A storm with two minds. A purpose shared like breath.

  Shaelith struck first. Her blade carved through the air in a vicious arc that caught a Nyxarian warrior across the throat. Blood sprayed hot and bright, painting the stone walls in crimson. She didn’t pause, didn’t even register the kill—just spun, her white hair whipping like a banner as she dropped low, sweeping the legs out from under another.

  Brynelle was already there.

  Already moving before Shaelith’s target hit the ground. Her stolen blade drove into the fallen warrior’s chest, the wet crunch of breaking ribs audible even over the chaos. She yanked it free, twisting to block a blow that would have taken Shaelith’s head off from behind.

  They didn’t speak.

  Didn’t need to.

  Shaelith pivoted left. Brynelle mirrored right. A perfect rotation that put them back-to-back for half a heartbeat before they exploded outward again, blades flashing in tandem like the hands of some deadly clock.

  A warrior lunged at Brynelle. Shaelith’s dagger left her hand before I could even track the movement, burying itself in his eye socket with a wet thunk. He dropped like a severed marionette.

  Brynelle didn’t look. Didn’t thank her. Just kept moving, kept killing, because she knew. Knew Shaelith would be there. Knew that space, that angle, that breath—all of it was covered.

  Another guard closed in on Shaelith from the left. Brynelle’s blade found his hamstring before he could complete the strike. He screamed, collapsed. And Shaelith’s blade opened his throat before the sound could finish leaving his lips.

  Efficient. Brutal. Beautiful.

  I couldn’t look away.

  The way Shaelith moved high while Brynelle struck low. The way they created openings for each other without hesitation, without doubt. Every step was a conversation. Every strike was trust made manifest in steel and blood.

  A warrior came at me. I barely registered him before my blade was in his gut, twisting, tearing. Hot blood spilled over my hands as I yanked it free and kept moving.

  But my eyes kept finding them.

  Shaelith ducked beneath a wild swing, and Brynelle was already there. Her blade driving up through the attacker’s chin with such force his feet left the ground. Shaelith caught him before he fell, shoving the body into another guard and using the momentum to drive her blade through both their hearts in one vicious thrust.

  Brynelle laughed. Breathless and absolutely feral as she spun to disembowel another soldier who’d made the mistake of thinking she was distracted.

  It was terrible.

  It was glorious.

  I’d never seen war look like music until now.

  The way Shaelith’s blade sang counterpoint to Brynelle’s. The way their bodies moved in rhythm—advance, retreat, strike, parry—like they were dancing to a song only they could hear. Death set to a tempo only lovers could follow.

  A guard grabbed my wrist. I drove my elbow into his face, felt cartilage shatter beneath the impact. Ripped free. My blade found his kidney, then his throat. He gurgled, clutching at the wound as if he could hold his life inside his body through will alone.