39. Rylan
39
RYLAN
T he stain of betrayal is still fresh in my memory.
Vael’s blood clings to my skin, dried at the edges of my tunic, the scent sharp, metallic, and infuriating.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not nearly enough.
I should have ripped him apart piece by piece before Lartina dragged him away. Should have made him beg for death before she claimed him.
But I didn’t.
Because even in the moment when I drove my dagger into his gut, something in his eyes stopped me.
Something I didn’t want to see.
Regret.
Guilt.
Vael hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t fought back.
He had let me stab him.
Because he knew he deserved it.
And yet—when Lartina’s men dragged him away, when Seraphina was stolen from my grasp—he didn’t laugh in victory like a man who had won.
He looked broken.
I rip through the wreckage of Vael’s home, shoving overturned chairs, smashing bottles against the walls.
Nothing.
Just blood and emptiness.
“Damn it!” I roar, my fury rolling in waves.
I grip the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white, my breath coming in short, violent bursts.
This is my fault.
I let my guard down.
I trusted him.
Vael had debts, I knew that. He was always desperate. Always playing a losing game in the slums, always looking over his shoulder.
But I thought he was stronger than this.
I thought he was still my brother.
Instead, he handed Seraphina over like a debt to be paid.
My fingers curl tighter around the wood until it splinters beneath my grip.
I need to find her.
I need to burn down everything until I do.
The slums stink of sweat and filth, but someone knows something. I patrol the alleys, looking for any clues, specifically, Vael’s men.
And if they don’t, I will carve the truth from their tongues.
I pull one of Vael’s old informants from the shadows, slamming him against a crumbling stone wall.
He chokes on his own breath, eyes wide, terrified.
My dagger is already at his gut, the tip pressing just enough to draw a bead of blood.
“Where?” I snarl.
He stammers, shaking his head. “I—I don’t?—”
I twist the blade.
Not deep. Just a taste.
He shrieks.
“Nhilian!” he gasps. “Nhilian took them!”
The name lands like a curse in my chest.
Nhilian.
The bastard who has haunted me since the fall of my family.
A man who was supposed to be my father’s friend.
A man who has been pulling the strings in the dark for far too long.
And Vael—my brother in all but blood—had handed Seraphina over to him.
A new kind of fury surges through me.
A cold, unrelenting rage that sharpens every breath, every thought.
The informant scrambles for words.
“He—he had no choice!” he blurts.
I still.
Slowly, I ease back the blade.
“Explain.”
He swallows hard, his pulse hammering against his throat.
“They’re going to take her,” he whispers. “Vael’s sister.”
A pause.
A slow, sickening realization curdles in my stomach.
Vael had a sister.
A girl he never spoke of.
A girl he had spent his entire life protecting.
And Nhilian had taken her.
That’s why he did it.
That’s why he betrayed me.
For family.
For the only thing that had ever meant anything to him.
I exhale through my nose, steadying the storm inside me.
It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t change anything.
The moment Vael chose to hand Seraphina over, he signed his death warrant.
Blood will reek.
A movement in the shadows.
I turn, already reaching for my blade.
But I don’t need it.
The dark elf stepping toward me isn’t here to fight.
He’s here to deliver a message.
He grins, sharp teeth flashing in the moonlight.
“Rylan,” he drawls, voice dripping with mockery. “You’re expected.”
I don’t speak.
I let him keep talking.
The bastard enjoys it.
He pulls a folded parchment from his coat and tosses it at my feet.
I don’t pick it up immediately.
I don’t need to.
I already know who it’s from.
Nhilian.
I unfold the parchment, scanning the elegant, slanted script.
A dinner invitation.
A taunt wrapped in silk and civility.
Rylan,
I assume by now you’ve realized what you’ve lost.
Shall we discuss the terms of what you will do to get it back?
Come to my home.
Let’s dine together.
Your dear uncle, Nhilian
The rage in my veins ignites into something lethal.
He thinks this is a game.
He thinks he’s already won.
I roll my shoulders, forcing a slow, measured breath.
And then I look at the messenger.
Still smiling.
Still breathing.
That won’t do.
The elf doesn’t even have time to scream.
The blade finds his throat, a clean, brutal slice.
A wet gurgle escapes him as he collapses to his knees.
I catch him before he falls, gripping his hair, yanking his head back.
His lips tremble.
I lean in.
“Message received,” I murmur.
Then—
I sever his head from his shoulders.
The alley is silent.
Blood pools at my feet.
I bend down, picking up the discarded invitation.
It’s already soaked in red.
Perfect.
I press the parchment against the severed head, letting the blood seep deeper into the words.
A declaration of war.
I turn, leaving the body where it is.
Let Nhilian find it.
Let him understand exactly what’s coming.
I will come.
But not to bargain.
Not to talk.
I will come to end this.