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The sour tang of mildew prickled Alara’s nose, thick and suffocating in the stale air of the storeroom. Dust floated in thin beams of light that barely sliced through the cracks in the wooden door. The towering stacks of crates around her seemed to lean closer, their jagged shadows closing in. Her heartbeat thrummed against her ribs, every pulse a desperate plea to leave.
“I’m not staying,” she snapped, the words cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade. Her hand reached for the door, her movements sharp, decisive.
“Wait.”
His voice broke the quiet, low and urgent. She froze, her fingers brushing the rough wood of the handle, her back rigid as if bracing against his words.
“Alara,” Rufus continued, his tone softening but no less urgent. “I’m here to apologize.”
The words hovered behind her, drawing tension through her spine. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then she turned the handle, keeping her gaze fixed forward. “It’s too late for that.”
She pushed the door, but his voice cracked again, louder now, raw with an edge that stopped her cold.
“I love you.”
Alara’s breath hitched. Her fingers faltered on the handle, and the world around her seemed to still. Slowly, she turned, her wide blue eyes meeting his. For a moment, her mind blanked, disbelief crashing over her like a wave.
“What did you say?” Her voice wavered, barely a whisper.
Rufus stood rooted a few paces away, tension radiating from his frame. His usual effortless confidence was gone, stripped away to reveal something raw, something that looked uncomfortably like vulnerability. Blonde hair fell messily over his forehead, and his hands hung stiffly at his sides, clenched into trembling fists.
“I love you,” he said again, softer now, each word deliberate. “And I made a mistake.”
Alara’s brow furrowed, suspicion stirring uneasily beneath her shock. “What do you mean?” she demanded, the words brittle.
He exhaled, the sound heavy with regret. “I was wrong not to help you save Rasa. I thought—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair, his composure fraying at the edges. “I thought keeping you safe meant keeping you away from danger. But I see now… I was wrong. I was blind, and I—” His voice faltered again. “I want to make it right. Let me help you save her.”
Her mind spiraled, fragments of the last few days flashing through her—Garin’s cryptic warnings, the hooded figure’s whispers, the unexplained chaos surrounding Rufus. The pieces refused to fit together. “None of this makes sense,” she muttered, the thought spilling out unbidden.
He took a cautious step closer, his movements slow, careful. His voice lowered to a near whisper, tinged with something almost reverent. “You don’t trust me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. His hand lifted, hesitating before brushing gently against her cheek. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through her, breaking through the haze of doubt, if only for a moment.
“You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?” he murmured, his eyes locked on hers. “This connection between us. I’ve felt it since the moment I met you, Alara. Like my life would be a hollow thing without you in it.”
Her breath caught as his words pierced through her defenses, unraveling the walls she’d carefully built to keep him at a distance. His eyes—so intent, so unwavering—seemed to see straight through her. She hated how easily he unsettled her, how his closeness made her heart race against her will.
“I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she pulled back, breaking the fragile closeness between them. She turned away, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists. “I can’t think about this right now. Rasa needs me. She’s more important than… than this.” Her voice dropped, but she forced herself to finish. “Than whatever this is.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and weighted. She felt his gaze on her, searching, measuring. When he finally spoke, his tone was steady, controlled, but tinged with something darker, quieter.
“Then let me help you,” he said. “I’ll get the plan in order and let you know when we’re ready.”
Her shoulders stiffened, but she nodded, unable to summon the energy to argue. “Fine,” she said, her voice taut. She gestured vaguely between them. “But this… it waits. Until Rasa is safe.”
A faint smile ghosted across his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Agreed.”
She didn’t wait for anything more. Turning sharply, she pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor beyond. Her pulse thundered, each beat echoing his words back at her. She could still feel the faint warmth of his touch, still hear the raw sincerity in his voice. But beneath it all, suspicion churned in her chest, dark and unrelenting.
Is he telling the truth? she wondered, her thoughts spiraling. Or is this just another game?
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The iron door groaned open, a sound that echoed in the small cell like a warning. Rasa didn’t move. Her back pressed against the cold stone wall, her knees drawn up, her hands resting lightly on them. She watched Uriah’s boots click against the floor, his pace deliberate, his posture rigid.
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“You’re back,” she said evenly, her voice cutting through the thick silence. Her eyes met his without flinching. “What did you find?”
Uriah stopped a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. His expression was tight, a mix of frustration and determination. “Rufus has been covering his tracks,” he said, his tone clipped. “The patrol logs show he’s been using aliases. Edric Ralford—one of them—was tied to suspicious movements here in Vernan. The Guildmaster’s name shows up more than once, but nothing concrete about what Rufus is moving.”
Rasa’s expression didn’t change, though a flicker of something unreadable passed behind her eyes. “So, nothing that gets me out of here.”
“Not yet,” Uriah admitted, stepping closer. His green eyes narrowed, pinning her with their intensity. “That’s why I need more from you.”
Rasa tilted her head slightly, her voice measured. “I’ve told you everything I know. Rufus thrives on manipulation. He’s dangerous—clever enough to twist any situation in his favor. Investigate him further.”
“I am,” Uriah snapped, pacing a tight circle in the confined space. “But the pieces don’t add up. I told Dal’akar you’re not a threat, but that only buys us time if you give me something I can use. I need to know why you were at the coronation in the first place.” He turned to face her, his voice hardening. “Why were you there, Rasa?”
She straightened, the tension in her body subtle but noticeable. “I was late,” she said simply.
“And you thought sneaking in was the best idea?” Uriah pressed, his voice sharp. “What was so important that you’d risk being caught, that you’d risk everything to get inside?”
Rasa’s jaw tightened. The silence stretched, and she dropped her gaze for a moment before lifting it again, her tone steady but quieter. “I didn’t intend to sneak in. I arrived late and didn’t want to draw attention.”
“Go on,” Uriah said, folding his arms. His stare didn’t waver.
She took a slow breath, her expression carefully neutral. “I ran into Rufus’s group by accident. I didn’t realize who they were until it was too late.”
“By accident?” Uriah’s disbelief was evident. He took a step closer, his voice softening but turning colder. “And that’s when Rufus pushed you?”
“Yes,” Rasa replied firmly, her eyes steady on his. “From the rafters. I didn’t have a chance to stop him.”
Uriah frowned, his gaze searching hers. “Why? What were you doing that made him push you? What were you hiding that Rufus didn’t want exposed?”
Rasa hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her composure cracked for a fleeting moment before she masked it again. “I don’t know,” she said, her tone clipped.
“You don’t know,” Uriah repeated, his voice low, almost a growl. He leaned closer, his frustration palpable. “You expect me to believe that Rufus—a man as calculated as you say—just threw you down without a reason?”
Her glare sharpened, but she didn’t answer.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he demanded, his tone a knife-edge of suspicion. “Because right now, your hesitation is making it hard to believe anything.”
“I’ve told you what matters,” Rasa snapped, the steel in her voice cutting through his doubt. “Focus on Rufus. That’s where the real danger lies.”
Uriah studied her for a long moment, his expression hard and unreadable. Finally, he shook his head, stepping back. “You’re hiding something,” he said quietly. “And if Dal’akar thinks you’re lying, I won’t be able to help you.”
“I’m not lying,” she said, but the weariness in her voice betrayed her. “I just… can’t answer every question.”
“That might not be enough,” Uriah said, his tone flat. He turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the iron handle. “If you want me to keep defending you, you need to start trusting me, Rasa. Otherwise, you’re leaving me with nothing.”
The door groaned shut behind him before she could respond. Rasa remained still, her breath shallow as her thoughts churned. The weight of what she couldn’t say pressed against her chest, and for the first time, a seed of doubt crept into her resolve. She clenched her fists, the cold stone at her back grounding her as she exhaled slowly.
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Alara’s footsteps echoed in the long, stone corridor, each step a steady drumbeat against her racing thoughts. She kept her gaze fixed forward, her cloak drawn tightly around her. The air seemed heavier here, charged with an unspoken weight that pressed against her chest. Just act normal. Don’t let them see anything. She forced her breathing to steady, though the pounding in her ears refused to quiet.
After leaving the storeroom, Alara had gone to the library, expecting to find Du’lan there. Instead, she found a neatly folded note left on one of the tables, written in his familiar, precise handwriting. It informed her that he had to report to Dal’akar and requested that she join him in the council chamber. Her stomach knotted as she read it. The thought of being in close proximity to the new king made her palms sweat, even though she reassured herself it wasn’t truly dangerous. Dal’akar didn’t recognize her. He had no reason to suspect her. Right? Yet, despite her reasoning, the idea unsettled her, the knot in her stomach tightening with each step toward the chamber.
The council chamber loomed ahead, its heavy oak door slightly ajar. Warmth spilled into the hallway, carrying with it the faint scent of burning wood. Alara paused for a breath before stepping inside.
The room was steeped in silence, broken only by the rhythmic scratch of a quill on parchment. A fire crackled in the hearth, its flames licking at the shadows that danced along the stone walls. The heat from it brushed against her skin, sharp and unrelenting, as though even the air demanded her attention. Dal’akar sat at the head of the table, his broad frame draped in shadow. The flickering firelight caught on the polished edges of his armor, casting sharp, jagged reflections across the room. His head was bowed, the quill in his hand moving deliberately across a piece of parchment.
Du’lan sat to his left, his posture relaxed but poised. His gray eyes flicked up as Alara entered, sharp and assessing, like a hawk catching sight of prey. His lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile as he set down the parchment he’d been holding.
Alara stepped inside, hesitating for the briefest moment before offering a polite bow. "My lords," she said, her voice steady despite the tension curling in her chest. "You requested my presence?"
“I suppose you didn’t find your ring,” Du’lan said, his voice calm, almost conversational. But there was an edge to his tone, a pointedness that made Alara’s steps falter.
She froze mid-stride, her heart lurching. The words hung in the air, deceptively casual yet heavy with implication. The quiet scrape of Dal’akar’s quill stopped. Alara’s pulse quickened, and unease coiled tightly in her chest. Something about the way Du’lan had said it—so deliberate, so assured—sent warning bells clamoring in her mind.
Her gaze darted to Du’lan, then to Dal’akar, who had looked up from his writing. His ice-blue eyes fixed on her, his expression impassive, though his brow ticked upward ever so slightly. He said nothing, but the weight of his attention pressed against her like a physical force.
“I—” Alara began, her voice catching. Her mind scrambled for a response, but Du’lan’s movement cut her off.
He reached into his pocket, his hand emerging slowly, deliberately. The motion was almost theatrical, designed to draw her attention. Between his fingers, he held a small object. The firelight glinted off its polished surface, catching her eyes like a beacon. Her breath hitched as the engraved band came into focus.
It was her ring.
Du’lan held it up, tilting it slightly as if to admire the craftsmanship. The intricate design of the crest, etched with precision, caught the flickering light, making it seem alive: an elegant tree with intertwining branches. Her mother’s ring.
Her family’s crest.