Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
Eliza stirred as midday light pierced through a narrow gap in the heavy drapes.
She had slept deeply, dreamlessly—the lykal tea's doing, no doubt.
Her body felt heavy, reluctant to wake after what must have been hours of uninterrupted rest. The massive bed enveloped her in its rough comfort, the linen sheets twisted around her legs from sleep's restless movements, trapping her in their coarse folds.
The chamber's air hung heavy with unfamiliar scents—smoke from the dying embers in the hearth, stone warmed by hidden fires within the stronghold's walls, and the faintest trace of something like incense lingering from passages beyond.
She blinked against the gloom, her mind gradually sharpening as full awareness returned.
And then she felt it.
The weight of fabric against her skin that wasn't hers. Broad, loose, smelling faintly of smoke and iron and something sharper—male.
His shirt.
She was disoriented, drifting in the strange comfort of warmth still clinging to the cloth. Then reality struck.
She remembered where she was... and whose chambers she had been brought into.
Rakhal Karthan. The shadow-orc. The second prince of Varak. The one who had stood over her bed with death in his hand, then stolen her away into the night.
Her stomach tightened. Her mouth went dry.
She was in his stronghold. In his bed. Wrapped in his shirt.
She had eaten the food he'd brought her—the rich, savory stew, the strangely soothing tea.
And she wasn't dead. Not sick.
In fact... she felt rested.
The ache in her body from that mad journey across the plains had ebbed. The shivering cold was gone. Warmth clung to her skin, seeping from the hearth that still crackled faintly, keeping the stone chamber from freezing like the rest of the stronghold.
How strange.
She drew a slow breath, her heart quickening. What time was it?
And—where was he?
She sat up straighter, then swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cool stone floor. Her body tensed, nerves prickling awake. She rose, cautiously at first, then all at once, standing in the dim chamber, her pulse a drumbeat in her ears.
Wide awake now.
Heart pounding.
It was almost unbelievable. The firelight, the warmth, the silence pressing close—it could have been a dream.
But it wasn't.
What was she supposed to do now? Simply sit here until he returned?
It was ridiculous. She, Eliza Ducanis—Queen of Maidan—reduced to a captive waiting meekly in a stranger's bedchamber.
Her jaw tightened. No.
She knew better than to try the door. Not yet. She had no illusions about what waited outside, nor about the kind of reception a human—their queen—would receive if she stumbled into the stronghold unescorted. And so far, the prince hadn't been cruel. Harsh, yes. Unyielding. But not unreasonable.
Still. She couldn't waste the time simply waiting.
She could look around.
Get a sense of the place. Search for details, clues, anything that might tell her what kind of creature he truly was beneath the mask of silence and shadow.
Knowledge was the only weapon left to her. The only thing that could give her any kind of edge.
She moved quietly through the bedchamber, her bare feet whispering against the cold stone floor. The nightgown clung to her, the hem whipping against her ankles as she crossed to the heavy drapes.
Her hands trembled faintly as she grasped the thick fabric. Then, with a sudden tug, she pulled them aside.
Light flooded in at once.
She blinked, raising a hand to shield her eyes until they adjusted. Beyond the tall window lay the heart of the stronghold—a wide courtyard of stone, its surface worn and scarred. A training ground, perhaps, or a place for gatherings.
In the center stood a broad circle etched into the rock, dark lines cut deep and deliberate. She didn't know what it meant, but it hummed with something that prickled her skin.
At the far side, she caught movement. Two guards—hulking orcs, broad-shouldered, tusks gleaming—patrolled the perimeter. One shifted, glancing toward the window.
Her heart lurched.
She stumbled back from the window, clutching the drape and yanking it shut again, retreating into the dimness before they could see her.
It was an acute reminder of how dangerous her situation truly was.
If Rakhal was to be believed, he was the only one who knew she was here.
He was hiding her. For his own purposes.
And she was under no illusions about what would happen if she stepped outside this chamber.
There would be no allies among the guards, no sympathy from the soldiers.
Whoever had ordered her death—his father, surely—commanded their loyalty.
To them she would be nothing more than prey.
A trespasser in the heart of their stronghold.
The thought made her stomach twist.
Rakhal had stolen her life from one edge of the blade to another. He had been sent to kill her, and instead he had... kept her.
Why?
His words echoed back to her. A political union. An end to the war.
Perhaps. But whatever else it was, it was also power. A dangerous game, played in the dark, where she was the single piece everyone would move to control.
And if she misstepped, she would be broken in the process.
Her heart hammered as she stepped back from the window, fingers clutching the drape shut. The memory of those guards lingered, tusks glinting, their eyes sharp even at a distance.
She turned quickly, scanning the room again.
There—a doorway.
It stood open, not leading outside, but deeper into the chambers. Beyond it, only shadow, the kind that clung even when morning light tried to seep in.
She hesitated.
Not the stronghold proper, just another part of his domain.
No harm in going there. He hadn't forbidden her from exploring.
And if she was to be locked in here like some treasured hostage, she needed to know every corner of the place.
Drawing a breath, she gathered the loose folds of his shirt tighter around her shoulders and stepped toward the doorway.
She stepped into the passage, the stone cold beneath her bare feet, her nightgown brushing against her ankles as she moved.
The air was heavier here, stale and untouched, the warmth of the hearth already fading into chill.
Shadows pressed close against the walls, broken only by the faint spill of firelight from the chamber she had left behind.
Ahead, the corridor stretched into silence.
Several doors lined either side, heavy wooden frames set into rough-hewn stone. All were shut, heavy and forbidding—except one.
Through its narrow gap came the muted glow of daylight.
She hesitated, pulse quickening, every instinct warning her that this was not her place. And yet...
Curiosity tugged at her more insistently than fear.
She crept forward, each step measured, cautious, her ears straining for the slightest sound. The silence was absolute, almost oppressive, broken only by the faint whisper of her own breath.
Her fingers brushed the cold wall for balance as she drew nearer to the open doorway.
She slipped through the open doorway, drawn to the pale sliver of daylight spilling in from a high, narrow window.
Her eyes swept the room in a glance—shelves of stone, a desk scattered with parchment, the faint smell of ink and burnt wax. A study, or perhaps an office of sorts.
But she hardly noticed.
Because her attention was immediately wrenched to the figure on the floor.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Broad shoulders, long dark hair spilling loose, the sheer bulk of him unmistakable.
Rakhal.
Collapsed on the cold stone, his frame curled slightly as though the weight of it all had driven him down. The shadows that clung to him were faint, ragged, dissipating in the morning light that slanted across his body.
Eliza could only stare, disbelieving.
The shadow-orc. Death incarnate. The creature who had stood over her with a blade at her throat, who had carried her through the night like she weighed nothing—
Now sprawled helpless on the floor of his own chambers.
She froze, trembling slightly, before forcing herself closer, step by step.
He wasn't dead.
His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, each breath deep and deliberate. Relief—or perhaps disappointment—slipped through her in a confusing rush.
She crouched slightly, studying him.
He lay utterly still, his great frame unmoving.
The morning light revealed him differently than the firelight had—not a creature of shadow and threat, but something almost vulnerable in repose.
His tusks curved elegantly from his lower lip, their ivory surface marked with fine etchings she hadn't noticed before—perhaps clan symbols or marks of rank.
A scar bisected his left eyebrow, continuing down to his cheekbone, paler against his gray-green skin.
His jaw, usually clenched in stern control, was relaxed now, revealing the strangely harmonious balance of his features.
Without the intensity of his gaze or the rigid set of his shoulders, she could see the clean lines of his profile, the surprising length of his eyelashes, the way his hair—black as midnight—framed his face like strands of raw silk.
Her pulse fluttered with mild alarm. Was he all right? Had something happened after he left her?
She searched for signs—blood, wounds, strain. But there was none. His chest lifted and fell steadily, as though he were simply sleeping.
Just sleeping.
Cautiously, she edged closer, every step measured, fearing he might stir. Surely he would—he always seemed to sense her, to know. But he didn't.
Defenseless.
Her gaze flicked away, restless, scanning the chamber.
Shelves lined with books, spines dark with age.
A massive table, roughly hewn, papers and maps spread across its surface, a single simple chair tucked in close.
Beyond, a tall window stood open, the sky vast and clear, clouds scudding lazily across an expanse of blue.