40. Seraphina
40
SERAPHINA
T he chains bite into my wrists, cold iron cutting into tender flesh. Each movement sends a dull throb through my arms, my body protesting against the rigid position they’ve forced me into.
The dining room is grand, yet decayed, the kind of place that once held elegance but now reeks of something rotten beneath the surface. Massive chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their dim candlelight casting long, wavering shadows along the cracked marble floors.
The long wooden table is set for a feast—platters of succulent meats, gilded goblets of wine, a decadent display of excess. But beneath the scent of spiced roast and darkened fruit lingers something darker.
Blood. Old stone. The underlying filth of a kingdom built on decay.
Nhilian dines like a king, but his castle is a tomb.
A place where power thrives, and secrets fester.
And tonight, he is waiting for Rylan.
I sit in a high-backed chair beside him, my body aching, bruised but unbroken. He wanted me present. Wanted me as part of his stage.
Ugur stands behind him now, watching me with the quiet calculation of a predator. Lartina is gone. She handed me earlier… so they could play with Rylan. So they could control him.
Fuck them all.
But from my observation, Ugur is worse. He doesn’t play with cruelty for the fun of it. He doesn’t revel in suffering the way Lartina did.
No, Ugur is colder. Smarter. He does what benefits him. And right now, keeping me alive is part of his plan.
The doors swing open with a heavy, shuddering groan.
And suddenly, the air is thinner. Colder.
Rylan.
His presence is a razor through the tension, a storm coiled tight beneath his skin. His emerald eyes lock onto me first, sweeping over the bruises, the bloodstains, the iron shackles digging into my wrists.
Something inside him fractures.
He doesn’t speak.
Not yet.
He just watches. Calculating. Seething.
Nhilian chuckles from beside me, swirling his goblet of wine lazily, like this is some kind of amusement. His fingers tap against the gilded rim, his amusement curling like smoke in the air.
"You're late," he muses. "I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come."
Rylan steps forward. Not toward Nhilian.
Toward me.
A silent demand.
Let. Her. Go.
Nhilian smiles. And tightens his grip on my shoulder.
Rylan stops.
His eyes flick down to the contact. Slowly. Methodically.
Like he’s already deciding which bones to break first.
Nhilian sighs, shaking his head. "Must you always be so predictable?"
The space is thick with unspoken threats.
I swallow, my throat dry, but I refuse to look away from Rylan.
From the rage barely contained beneath his skin.
He wants to rip this place apart.
Wants to carve a path through Nhilian and every single bastard in this room.
But Nhilian still has the upper hand.
He still has me.
And he knows it.
He leans back, taking another sip of wine. "I assume you have questions."
Rylan’s voice is low, quiet. More dangerous than a scream.
"Unchain her."
Nhilian chuckles. "No."
Rylan’s jaw tightens.
I see the barely restrained urge to lunge, to snap Nhilian’s spine in half.
But the older dark elf is patient.
He wants something more than blood.
He wants to break him.
And I know how he’s going to do it.
Nhilian exhales, setting his goblet down. "You know, I always did find it amusing how much you clung to your precious ‘truths,’ Rylan."
He gestures to the seat across from us.
"Sit. Let me give you one more."
Rylan doesn’t move.
Nhilian smiles, like he enjoys this. Like he lives for this.
And then he says it.
The final truth.
The one meant to shatter him.
"The man you called father killed the man who gave you life."
The room plunges into silence.
Rylan just stands there, staring.
His body rigid as stone.
As if his mind refuses to process what he just heard.
Then his breath shudders.
Faint. Almost imperceptible.
"You're lying."
Nhilian shrugs. "Am I?"
A flick of his fingers brings a servant forward, placing a sealed letter on the table.
The seal is unmistakable.
Marchellion’s crest.
Rylan’s father. His non-biological father.
A chill crawls up my spine.
Nhilian leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, watching Rylan like he’s a spider toying with a fly caught in his web.
"He wrote it before his death," Nhilian continues. "A confession. Detailing the truth of your family's fall. Your real father—Argus—he dabbled in magic that should never have been touched. He became… something else."
Rylan’s breath stills.
I don’t dare move.
Don’t dare speak.
I see it—the breaking.
The slow, splintering of something deep inside him.
"Marchellion was given a choice: kill the monster his closest friend had become, or die alongside him. He chose survival. You were the only thing he spared."
The words hang in the air.
Suffocating.
Smothering.
Rylan doesn’t move.
He doesn’t blink.
But his fingers tremble.
So slight, I almost miss it.
Almost.
Nhilian leans back, gesturing lazily. "Now you know. So, what will you do with it?"
I know what Nhilian wants.
He wants Rylan to break.
To become weak with grief, with doubt.
But I know Rylan.
I know that when he breaks, he doesn’t shatter.
He burns.
And when he finally speaks, his voice is like ice cracking beneath the weight of an impending avalanche.
"This changes nothing."
Nhilian’s smirk falters.
Just slightly.
Rylan lifts his head, and I see it.
Not one ounce of grief or desperation.
Resolve.
Deadly. Unforgiving. Absolute.
"You took something from me," he murmurs, stepping forward.
The guards in the room tense.
Nhilian watches him carefully.
Rylan tilts his head.
"You think this will stop me?"
He smiles.
It’s not a pleasant smile.
It’s a promise of violence.
Nhilian doesn’t realize it yet.
But he’s already lost.