But that wasn't the truth.
He couldn't help but stare.
At the way her lips had moved when she tasted the stew. At the flush that had crept into her cheeks as the warmth of food and fire took hold of her. At the stubborn lift of her chin, even when exhaustion dragged at her eyes.
Delicate, but deliberate.
Alluring.
The thought burned in his mind like a brand. And perhaps she was right—perhaps he was mad. But the more he saw of her, the more he watched, the more he caught glimpses of her spirit beneath the fear, the more he felt she would not be a poor match. Not at all.
And he couldn't believe he was having those thoughts.
He made his way through the stronghold's silent corridors, the weight of stone and shadow pressing familiar against him. His steps carried him toward his office, but his mind lingered elsewhere.
On her.
Eliza Ducanis.
She was direct. Unafraid. Even bound, weary, stolen from her own bedchamber in the dead of night, she had met his gaze with defiance. Already calculating, already maneuvering, even in the midst of helplessness.
Other humans, perhaps, would have fallen to pieces. Terror would have broken them the moment they realized whose hands had taken them—what he was capable of, where they were.
But not her.
She held herself steady, even now. And that made her dangerous.
And valuable.
It made her... attractive.
The thought lodged in his mind like a thorn, impossible to dislodge. He pushed it down, but it lingered, stubborn and insistent, gnawing at the edges of his resolve.
He entered his office and shut the heavy door behind him. The chamber was as stark and spartan as the rest of the stronghold—bare stone walls, shelves lined with maps and ledgers, a great desk carved from dark wood scarred by age and use.
Crossing the room, he lowered himself into the chair and leaned back, exhaling a deep sigh.
At last, he was alone.
And only then did he allow the mask to slip, the weariness he had carried since leaving Istrial pressing down on him all at once. The shadow-veil had drained him nearly to the marrow,every step across the plains heavy with the cost of it. Even now, his bones ached with fatigue, his limbs leaden.
He closed his eyes, the fire of exhaustion licking through him. His muscles spasmed with the telltale tremors of shadow-sickness, fever burning beneath his skin. The runes etched across his torso throbbed in painful rhythm, each one a point of raw agony as though the shamans were carving them anew. His vision swam, darkness encroaching at the edges, sweat beading despite the chamber's chill. For a fleeting moment the image of her face rose unbidden before him—blue eyes sharp, lips flushed, the stubborn tilt of her chin.
And he cursed himself for it.
But weariness was dangerous.
When his body weakened, so too did his grip on the shadows.
They slid in, curling at the edges of his thoughts, whispering in the dark of his mind. Their voices were insidious, soft as silk and sharp as knives—promises of absolute power, visions of blood and ruin, of thrones carved from the bones of his enemies.
Always the madness.
It was becoming harder to keep at bay.
He pressed his palms to his temples, drawing in a ragged breath, but the voices only swelled, feeding on his fatigue, on his hunger, on the raw edge of restraint. They had been with him since his youth, always waiting, always hungry.
Perhaps that was why he had sought an end to the war so desperately—why he had agreed to his father's command, why he had taken the risk of entering Istrial alone.
