“I have seen things at the edges of your wards,” he said slowly. “Symbols in a tongue older than Solaris itself, carved into stones where no Paladin dares tread. Wagons slipping through the portal gates at night, escorted by those not clad in armor but in robes of authority. I hear the cries of children in dreams not my own.”
I shook my head. “No. The Elders would never—”
His hand cut the air, sharp. “Do not be blind. You look at me and see a curse. But what curse drives men to barter with shadows willingly?”
The accusation twisted inside me. I thought of Elder Kathar’s smooth voice dismissing my concerns, of his smile that never reached his eyes. I thought of the orphans vanishing, and of how quickly the matter had been brushed aside in council. A chill sank into my bones.
“You feed me lies,” I said, though the words faltered. “To turn me against my own. To make me doubt.”
His expression softened, almost imperceptibly. “I do not need to embed what already grows in you, priestess. The doubt is yours.”
I closed my eyes briefly, fighting the sting of truth.
When I opened them, he was still watching me, his gaze not predatory but searching—almost bewildered, as though he too could not fathom what tether pulled us into conversation instead of slaughter.
He turned slightly, as though retreating into the comfort of the shadows. Yet he lingered, waiting, as if hoping I might speak again. And I hated that part of me wanted to.
I drew a breath, steadying myself. “You said you endure because you must. But what if there were a way to end it?”
His head snapped back, and for the first time, I saw something blaze in his eyes that was not anger. Hope. Desperate, fragile hope.
“What do you mean?” His voice was rough, strained.
I hesitated. The old stories stirred in my memory—the tale of the mage cursed by Nyx, who could be freed only by light pure enough to pierce the darkness. I had always dismissed it as allegory, meant to warn apprentices against ambition. But if he was truly that mage…
“I know of the prophecy,” I said slowly. “That only light may set you free.”
He stared at me, every shadow around him holding still. His voice, when it came, was scarcely more than a whisper. “Then perhaps… that is why I cannot turn away from you.”
The words struck me like a blade and a balm all at once. My breath caught, and for a long moment, the world narrowed to the space between us—darkness and light straining toward one another, neither willing to break.
His words lingered between us, heavy, dangerous:perhaps that is why I cannot turn away from you.
I told myself it was manipulation. A cunning ploy from a cursed being desperate to twist my compassion into a weapon. Yet when I looked at him, when I truly looked, I did not see the gloating cruelty of an enemy who had cornered me. I saw the tremor in his jaw, the way his eyes wavered as though daring me to laugh, to scoff, to shatter that fragile flicker of hope.
I did not laugh.
Instead, I felt my own chest tighten, as though the weight of his confession pressed against me, demanding acknowledgement.
“You think I could free you?” I asked quietly.
“You are the brightest light I have ever seen,” he said, and there was no mockery in it, no honeyed deception. Just truth, raw and bare. “When you entered the forest, every shadow recoiled. You carry the Sun’s fire in your veins. If any flame could burn through Nyx’s chains, it is yours.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to deny it, to remind him and myself that I was here to end him, not save him. But the words caught, unspoken.
“Light is not always mercy,” I whispered at last. “Sometimes it is only destruction.”
His lips curved, but it was not a smile. “And yet destruction might be mercy, if it ends the curse.”
I should have seized on that. Should have told him that mercy was precisely what I intended: to destroy him so Solaris could live unthreatened. Yet when I tried to form the words, I faltered. Because if I destroyed him, would that truly be mercy—or simply obedience to fear dressed as duty?
The chains of shadow around my wrists pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat. I shifted, rubbing at the ache. His eyes flicked toward the motion, and to my surprise, the bindings loosened again, though not enough to free me.
“You’re sparing me,” I said, testing the thought aloud. “Why?”
He studied me a long moment. “Because killing you would be easy. Too easy. And yet…” His gaze softened, almost reluctant. “I do not wish to.”
It was the strangest thing: to be feared, revered, desired by my people as untouchable, immortal—and yet here, to hear him admit that hecouldkill me, but he simply did not wish to do it, as though it were a choice he puzzled over.
