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Dal’akar’s ice-blue eyes locked onto Alara with an intensity that felt as if he were peeling back her every layer. The silence stretched unbearably, the crackle of the fire in the hearth the only sound in the room. Finally, with a slow, deliberate motion, he gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Alara’s movements were cautious, calculated as she obeyed. She lowered herself into the seat, her hands curling into tight fists beneath the table. Her nails dug into her palms—a silent effort to steady herself. She already knew what this was about. The ring. The thought of it made her stomach churn, and she struggled to control her breathing.
Du’lan broke the silence first, his tone calm but tinged with curiosity. “You carry something interesting,” he said, leaning forward. The quiet scrape of metal against wood followed as he placed the ring on the table between them. Its polished surface glinted in the firelight, the crest catching her eye as though daring her to speak.
“This,” Dal’akar cut in, his voice cold and incisive, “must have quite the story.”
Alara hesitated, her fingers hovering above the ring before she reached out to cradle it. The cool metal felt heavier than it should, and the room seemed to close in around her. “It belonged to my mother,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. “It’s all I have left of her.”
Du’lan’s expression softened slightly, his gray eyes tinged with a trace of sympathy. “And her name?” he asked gently.
She allowed the briefest pause, enough to appear reflective without arousing suspicion. “Lysara,” she lied, the name slipping smoothly from her lips. She lowered her gaze, letting the flickering shadows of the fire mask the tension tightening her chest. “My father rarely spoke of her past.”
Du’lan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Convenient,” he murmured, his tone measured but probing. “And the crest? Surely you know its origin.”
Feigning thoughtfulness, Alara let the silence stretch. “My father said it was from her family,” she replied, keeping her voice even. “She wasn’t noble, but her lineage carried pride. I believe the crest belonged to her village.”
Dal’akar didn’t look convinced. His gaze sharpened further, like frost biting into her skin. “Emeresian villages do not use crests,” he said, his words cutting with precision. “Their symbols are practical, tied to trade or craft. This,” he gestured to the ring, “does not belong to a common family.”
Alara allowed her shoulders to sag slightly, feigning surprise at his observation. “I didn’t know she was Emeresian,” she admitted, her voice trembling just enough to seem genuine. “My father never spoke of her past, and she never told me herself. I’ve pieced together what little I can from fragments.”
Du’lan studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “And yet you wear it still.”
“It’s all I have of her,” Alara said again, her voice quieter now, carrying a deliberate hint of vulnerability. She closed her fingers around the ring, its cold weight grounding her. “It’s… a comfort. A connection to someone I barely remember.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint pop of the fire. Dal’akar tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze boring into her as if weighing every word, every movement. Do they know? Are they piecing it together? Her heart pounded in her chest, but she met his eyes unflinchingly, forcing herself to maintain the fragile facade.
Finally, Dal’akar leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “And you truly know nothing more?” he asked.
“No,” Alara said firmly, her blue eyes unwavering despite the storm inside her. “I wish I did.”
Du’lan straightened, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer before he nodded. “The crest warrants investigation,” he said, his tone softer now. “If it ties to Emeresia, it may reveal more than she realizes.”
Dal’akar rose from his seat, the scrape of wood against stone breaking the tension. His voice was clipped as he replied, “Perhaps. But it could just as easily be a dead end.” He paused, his gaze flicking toward her one last time, cold and calculating, before turning to the door.
Du’lan followed, his glance toward Alara carrying a faint, almost reassuring nod before he disappeared into the corridor with Dal’akar. The heavy door clicked shut behind them, leaving her alone with the silence.
Alara exhaled shakily, her breath escaping in a rush. For a fleeting moment, she strained to hear their voices beyond the thick walls, but nothing reached her ears. The ring in her palm felt heavier than ever, its once-familiar presence now a painful reminder of how close she’d come to disaster. She slipped it back into her pocket, her thoughts a tangled mess.
Why didn’t I pick it back up when I had the chance? The memory of its absence twisted like a knife in her chest. Relief mingled with guilt as she realized they hadn’t uncovered the truth. You got through this. For now.
Straightening, she whispered a name under her breath, the word a quiet vow. “Rasa.” Her chest tightened as resolve swept through her. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
The heavy oak door groaned shut behind Du’lan and Dal’akar as they moved deeper into the fortress, leaving the tension of the last room behind but carrying its weight with them. The air in this chamber was cooler, the kind that clung to stone walls steeped in history. Candlelight flickered weakly, shadows pooling across the room’s aged tomes and maps scattered on the large wooden table dominating the space.
Dal’akar wasted no time. His strides were sharp and deliberate, and when he reached the table, he leaned against its edge with a commanding presence. His ice-blue gaze focused on an indeterminate point, but his words were razor-sharp as they cut through the silence.
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“The girl is hiding something,” he said. His voice was low, precise, carrying the weight of his doubt. He turned his gaze on Du’lan, who lingered near the door, his demeanor steady but attentive. “Her story doesn’t add up. A crest from Emeresia, a mother she claims to barely remember—it’s all too convenient.”
Du’lan stepped forward, his measured pace contrasting with Dal’akar’s taut energy. He stopped near the table, his hands clasped behind his back as he spoke with even composure. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but fear often causes the innocent to falter. She struck me as desperate, not deceitful.”
Dal’akar’s piercing gaze didn’t soften. “Desperation,” he said, “is fertile ground for lies. If she’s hiding something, it could be dangerous, and we cannot afford to let sentiment compromise our judgment.”
Du’lan tilted his head slightly, considering his words. “And yet,” he countered, “she offered us the name of her mother, Lysara. If she were truly a threat, why provide any lead at all?” He took a step closer, one hand resting on the edge of the table. “Let me investigate her family. If her story holds weight, we’ll confirm it. And if not, we’ll know where she stands.”
Dal’akar’s silence was heavy, his icy eyes fixed on Du’lan as if weighing his sincerity. The crackle of the hearth was the only sound until he gave a short nod, though his posture remained unyielding. “Fine,” he conceded. “Look into her family. But don’t let this distract you from the real threats. The girl in the dungeon, the dynamite plot—those remain our priorities.” His voice hardened as he straightened. “Find Uriah. Cross-reference his investigation with what we know. And take the girl with you.”
Du’lan’s brows rose slightly, though his calm demeanor remained intact. “You want me to involve her?”
Dal’akar’s response was quick and decisive. “Let her prove herself. If she’s hiding something, the pressure will expose it. If she’s truthful, she may surprise us.” His gaze flicked toward the door. “This is her chance. Use it.”
Du’lan inclined his head, his respect evident despite the unspoken tension. “As you command.”
Without another word, Du’lan turned on his heel and left the room. His steps were steady, but his thoughts whirled between caution and curiosity. When he reached the adjoining chamber, he found Alara standing by the window, her figure outlined by the fading light of dusk. The soft glow painted her profile in muted hues, but her guarded posture betrayed her unease.
Du’lan’s voice broke the stillness, calm yet firm. “You’ve been given an opportunity. You’re coming with me. There’s work to be done.”
Alara turned, her eyes widening slightly at his words. Surprise flickered across her face, but she quickly nodded. “Of course. Where are we going?”
“To find someone who might help us untangle this mess,” Du’lan replied, already moving toward the door. He glanced back briefly. “Stay close. Listen carefully. And prove that you can be trusted.”
Without further question, Alara followed. As the weight of the ring in her pocket grounded her, the dimly lit hallways seemed to stretch endlessly ahead. The unease curling in her chest lingered, but alongside it, a flicker of determination took hold. Whatever lay ahead, she would meet it head-on.
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The steady rhythm of boots echoed against the damp stone walls, mingling with the faint flicker of torchlight that danced across the dungeon corridor. The air felt thick, oppressive, and each gust of wind sent shadows twisting like restless phantoms. Uriah emerged from the far end of the hallway, his expression taut, as though he carried the weight of unresolved truths from his conversation with Rasa.
Du’lan approached with his usual deliberate pace, Alara trailing a few steps behind him. Her cloak swayed softly as she walked, her head slightly bowed, but her sharp ears caught every sound, every shift in tone. She might have appeared hesitant, but her focus was razor-sharp.
“Captain Lockridge,” Du’lan greeted, his voice brisk but respectful. “I trust your conversation was productive?”
Uriah came to a halt, his arms crossing as his lips tightened into a thin line. “Productive enough,” he said, his voice edged with irritation. “But she’s still holding back. Typical.” His eyes flicked briefly to Alara before settling back on Du’lan. “What brings you down here?”
Du’lan stepped closer, his voice lowering slightly as he spoke. “We’ve uncovered some troubling details about Garin. His behavior during questioning raised suspicions, and Marta mentioned an unfamiliar man in the kitchens—a supposed wine deliverer. The timing aligns too conveniently with Garin’s responsibilities.”
Uriah’s brow furrowed, his arms uncrossing as he shifted his weight. “Wine barrels?”
Du’lan nodded. “I suspect they were used to smuggle something—though what, I’m not yet certain. Given Garin’s recent actions, it’s a lead we can’t ignore.” His tone sharpened. “Have you found anything in your investigation that connects to him?”
Uriah’s jaw tightened, his frustration surfacing. “Not directly to Garin,” he admitted, “but Rasa mentioned a name. Rufus Faulkner. She tied him to the dynamite plot, calling him the orchestrator. I’ve been digging, and he’s operating under the alias Edric Ralford here in Vernan.”
Alara’s heart thudded painfully at the mention of Rufus, but she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her expression carefully neutral. Rufus. It had to be him. But why involve Garin? What’s he planning now? The thoughts swirled, but she forced herself to remain composed.
Uriah’s voice grew darker. “The man’s clever. Too clever. If he’s working with Garin, this could be our way to uncover the larger scheme. Whatever they’re moving, it’s big enough to have Garin on edge.”
Du’lan’s features turned grim. “That fits with what we’ve seen. Desperation makes men careless. We’ll use that to draw him out.”
Uriah’s lips quirked into a humorless smile. “Careless or not, Rasa’s still holding something back. I’ll press her again soon.”
At this, Alara raised her head slightly, her mind racing. She hesitated, then took a step forward. “Perhaps… perhaps she’d be more open to someone less intimidating,” she said carefully, her voice quiet but steady.
Uriah’s brow shot up, a flicker of incredulity crossing his face. “Intimidating?” he repeated, his voice caught between disbelief and amusement. “Me? I’m the friendliest face she’s seen in days.”
Du’lan’s lips twitched with the hint of a smirk, though he remained silent. Alara pressed on, her tone gaining confidence. “Sometimes people hold back when they feel cornered. If I spoke to her, she might feel less threatened.”
Uriah scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “You think she’ll just spill her secrets because you ask nicely? Rasa’s sharper than that.”
Du’lan tilted his head slightly, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s not a bad idea,” he said, his voice calm. “If she feels less pressure, she may let something slip. We’ve seen it before—people often reveal more when the stakes feel lower.”
Uriah frowned, glancing between them. “You’re serious?”
“I am,” Du’lan replied firmly. “It’s worth the attempt. If it works, we’ll gain valuable insight. If it doesn’t, we lose nothing.”
Uriah exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said grudgingly, his tone warning. “But don’t think for a second that she won’t try to manipulate you,” he told Alara, his green eyes narrowing. “She’s clever, and she’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be careful,” Alara promised, her voice steady despite the turmoil beneath her calm exterior. Rasa, we need to be careful. This has to look real.
Du’lan inclined his head, his approval subtle but clear. “Good. Let’s get started.”
The three moved deeper into the corridor, their footsteps echoing softly in the dim light. As they approached Rasa’s cell, Alara steadied her breathing, her resolve crystallizing. Whatever happened next, she had to protect them both. Failure wasn’t an option.