The dungeon’s oppressive stillness weighed on Alara, thick and stifling. She clung to the shadows on the staircase above, her heart hammering as Dal’akar’s voice echoed below. His commanding presence filled the narrow stone corridor, every word laced with simmering anger, each syllable a challenge.
“So,” Dal’akar said, his tone sharp enough to cut steel, “this is the man you trusted, Rasa? The one you claimed was your enemy?” He scoffed, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he stared her down. “I suppose it doesn’t surprise me. You’d say anything to claw your way out of prison.”
Rasa’s posture stiffened, her chin rising as if the words struck her but hadn’t felled her. “You don’t know anything about me,” she replied, her voice steady but carrying an edge.
Dal’akar’s lip curled in disdain. “I know enough. Honorless assassins don’t change their colors just because the wind shifts.” His eyes burned with righteous anger, the weight of something deeper than betrayal behind them.
Alara flinched at the venom in his tone. She wanted to defend Rasa, to call out from her perch and tell Dal’akar he was wrong, that Rasa was more than he thought. But her voice caught in her throat. His anger wasn’t just for Rasa—it was a shield, hiding the wounds she could feel resonating through his words. His voice cracked just slightly, betraying the emotion he was trying to keep buried. Alara’s chest tightened.
“And you,” Dal’akar said, turning his attention to Rufus with all the precision of a blade. His voice dropped, colder now, calculated. “The so-called mastermind. Let me guess—you’re behind the attacks on my fortress. Tell me, are you behind my father’s death as well? Or did you leave that to another lackey?”
For a moment, the air seemed to still. Rufus stood motionless, his head tilting slightly, as if considering how much of the truth to parcel out. His eyes glinted in the torchlight, unreadable and unnerving. Then, with a smoothness that made Alara’s skin crawl, he smiled.
“I would never take credit for another’s work,” Rufus said, his voice almost soothing. “Your father’s death? A tragedy, truly. But I had nothing to do with it.”
Alara’s fingers dug into the cool stone of the staircase. Rufus’s tone was too calm, too polished, like he’d rehearsed the response a hundred times before. She didn’t believe him for a moment, and judging by the way Dal’akar’s fists tightened, neither did he.
“You speak of tragedy as if you’re untouched by it,” Dal’akar said, his voice low and cutting. “But I see what you are—a vulture circling the ruins of a kingdom.”
The words hung in the air like a drawn sword. Alara felt her pulse quicken, the tension below coiling tighter with each passing second. She wanted to move, to act, but fear gripped her limbs. What would happen if she revealed herself? Would Dal’akar see her as an accomplice? Would Rasa and Rufus turn on her? She felt the weight of her indecision pressing down on her, heavy and paralyzing. Her breath hitched. She was out of place here, an intruder on a battlefield.
A faint whisper sliced through her spiraling thoughts. “There you are.”
Alara’s heart leapt into her throat. She spun, her eyes wide as they landed on Marta, who stood behind her on the narrow staircase. The older woman’s voice was low but sharp, her face a mixture of frustration and concern.
“Marta?” Alara whispered, her voice barely audible over the confrontation below. Her mind raced, trying to piece together how Marta had found her.
“You’ve been gone too long,” Marta murmured, her gaze flicking past Alara to the scene below. “I came looking before someone started asking questions.”
“I couldn’t…” Alara hesitated, the words jamming in her throat. Guilt and confusion swirled together in a knot in her chest. “I couldn’t leave.”
Marta leaned closer, her expression hardening. “This isn’t the place for you, Alara. Let the guards handle this. If you stay, you’ll only make it worse.”
Alara turned back toward the scene, her stomach twisting. Dal’akar’s voice rang out again, sharp and unforgiving. His anger burned brighter now, his words striking at Rufus like lashes. “My father built this kingdom brick by brick, while men like you plotted in the shadows. You think you’re some great strategist? You’re just another coward.”
Rufus’s smile didn’t falter. “You mistake me for someone who cares about the opinions of dead kings.”
Alara’s breath caught at the audacity of his words. Her gaze flicked back to Marta. “I can’t just leave them,” she said, her voice trembling. “I have to—”
“No,” Marta interrupted, her grip on Alara’s arm tightening. “You’ll only draw attention to yourself. This is going to end badly.”
Alara’s gaze dropped to Marta’s hand on her arm. Something felt… off. There was a tension in Marta’s grip that didn’t match her usual demeanor. Her stomach churned.
“Marta…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “Why are you really here?”
Marta’s eyes flicked to her, narrowing slightly, but she didn’t answer.
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Below, the clash of steel shattered the air. Rufus moved, swift and deadly, lunging for Dal’akar with a blade glinting in the dim torchlight. The two guards sprang into action, their swords meeting his with a deafening ring that reverberated through the stone walls.
“Dal’akar!” Alara cried, her instincts finally overcoming her hesitation. She darted down the stairs, ignoring Marta’s hissed protests behind her. Her heart thundered as she closed the distance to Dal’akar, dropping to her knees beside him.
His breathing was shallow, his skin pale, but his eyes fluttered open at the sound of her voice. For a moment, his gaze softened, the fire dimming as recognition flickered there.
“Lari?” he murmured, the word slurred but unmistakable.
Alara froze, the name unfamiliar yet intimate. “Don’t speak,” she whispered, her hands trembling as she pressed them to his chest. “You’re going to be all right. Stay with me.”
Above her, the fight raged on. She heard the grunts of the guards, the clash of swords, and the chilling efficiency of Rufus’s movements. A terrible realization struck her—this wouldn’t end until someone died. And if Rufus won, Dal’akar wouldn’t survive.
Her hands tightened on Dal’akar’s shoulders as tears blurred her vision. Do something, Alara. Don’t just sit here. Do something.
Alara looked up, her breath hitching as Rufus moved like a storm. Each swing of his blade was precise, deadly, the efficiency of a man who had done this far too many times. The guards, though valiant, were no match for him. Their movements faltered against his calculated strikes, and the wet sound of metal slicing flesh cut through the air.
The first guard crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping from lifeless fingers. The second staggered, blood spilling across his uniform before he, too, fell. Silence settled over the dungeon, thick and suffocating, as Rufus stood amidst the carnage, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow the only sign of exertion.
Alara’s stomach churned. The pool of blood on the stone floor glistened in the dim light, its metallic scent crawling up her throat. Her gaze darted to Rufus, who turned toward her with calm deliberation, his blade still in hand. His expression was unreadable—no anger, no satisfaction, just an unsettling calm.
“Step aside,” Rufus said, his tone flat, as if she were merely an obstacle to be moved. “The war ends with his death.”
For a moment, Alara couldn’t breathe. Her mind screamed at her to run, to retreat, but her body betrayed her. She rose to her feet, placing herself between Dal’akar and Rufus. Her legs trembled beneath her, but she forced herself to meet his gaze.
“No,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “This isn’t right. There has to be another way.”
Rufus exhaled, his shoulders shifting as if he were carrying the weight of her naivety. “You’re thinking like a child, Alara,” he said, his voice almost pitying. “Do you want to save your father or not? Dal’akar’s death guarantees we win.”
“He’s not a guarantee!” Alara shot back, her voice rising despite the tightness in her chest. “He’s a person, Rufus, not a pawn. And killing him won’t bring my father back.”
Rufus stilled, the faintest flicker of hesitation crossing his face. For a moment, Alara thought she’d reached him. But the moment passed, his expression hardening once more. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“Maybe I don’t,” she admitted, her voice softening as she glanced at Dal’akar’s unconscious form. “But I know this isn’t the way. If we become like them—if we kill without thought, without mercy—then what are we even fighting for?”
A shadow of doubt passed over Rufus’s face, but before he could respond, Rasa stepped forward. Her movements were hesitant, her eyes darting between Alara and Rufus.
“Rasa,” Rufus said, his voice shifting to something gentler, almost coaxing. “You know I’m right. We can end this here and now.”
Rasa’s face was drawn, conflict written in every line. Her shoulders sagged as if the weight of his words pressed down on her. “Maybe,” she said quietly, her gaze dropping to the blood-stained floor.
Then her eyes lifted, meeting Alara’s, and something softened. “But this isn’t who we are,” she said, her voice firmer now. She turned back to Rufus, resolve hardening her features. “There’s nothing to do except escape.”
The tension in the air felt like a thread pulled too tight, ready to snap. Alara’s breath caught in her throat as Rufus’s gaze lingered on Rasa, his jaw tightening. She thought, just for a moment, that they had reached an uneasy peace. But the stillness was a lie.
Marta moved.
It happened so fast that Alara barely registered it. One moment, Rasa was standing, defiant and steady. The next, Marta was behind her, the blade plunging deep into her side. The sound—the awful, wet sound of metal meeting flesh—cut through Alara like a blade of its own.
Rasa’s gasp was sharp, her body jerking as the dagger twisted. Blood bloomed across her robes, dark and startling, before she staggered forward. Alara lunged, catching her as she fell.
“No!” Alara’s scream tore through the dungeon, raw and desperate. Her arms wrapped around Rasa, lowering her to the ground. Her hands pressed against the wound instinctively, but the blood poured too fast, warm and sticky against her skin.
Rasa’s breathing came in shallow, ragged gasps. Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze finding Alara’s even as her lips trembled, struggling to form words. “Alara…”
Alara shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “Don’t talk,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Just hold on. Please, Rasa. Hold on.”
She glanced up, her eyes blazing with fury. “Marta,” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “Why?”
Marta stood over them, her dagger still dripping red. Her face was cold, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, she didn’t answer, the silence heavier than anything she could have said.
Rufus didn’t move. His eyes flicked to Marta, his face a mask of carefully constructed shock. “Marta,” he said sharply, his voice laced with manufactured anger. “What have you done?”
Marta didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on Alara and Rasa.
Alara’s tears spilled freely now, falling onto Rasa’s blood-soaked robes. She could feel Rasa’s strength fading, the warmth of her skin dimming against her touch. Her chest heaved with silent sobs as she pressed harder against the wound, as if sheer willpower could keep her friend alive.
“Stay with me,” Alara whispered, her voice trembling as she cradled Rasa. “Please… don’t leave me.”
Alara’s broken plea hung in the still air. Blood pooled around them, and the faint echoes of Alara’s sobs carried through the dungeon, suffocating and unbroken.