Lysandra ran.
The underground tunnel twisted and turned, the air thick with damp earth and the scent of roots. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she stumbled forward, her fingers trailing along the cold, uneven walls.
The rebels ahead moved quickly, their torches flickering against the rough stone. Maren led the way, her expression tight, her grip on her sword unwavering.
Jael was still out there.
Lysandra's chest ached at the thought, but she couldn't stop. Not now.
Suddenly, a tremor ran through the tunnel. Dust rained from the ceiling. A muffled boom echoed from above.
"Move faster!" Maren barked.
Lysandra pushed forward, but something gnawed at the edges of her mind—a whisper, barely audible.
A voice she hadn't heard in years.
"You are not meant to run, Lysandra."
Her steps faltered.
That voice… It was her mother's.
She barely had time to process it before the ground shuddered violently.
Betrayal in the Dark
A flash of steel.
A shout.
Pain burst through Lysandra's side as something sharp sank into her flesh. She gasped, stumbling backward as warm blood soaked through her tunic.
Maren whipped around, her sword raised.
But the attacker wasn't one of Aldric's men.
It was one of their own.
A rebel, his face twisted with regret, yanked the dagger from Lysandra's side. She collapsed against the tunnel wall, gasping.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "He has my family."
Aldric.
Of course.
Lysandra clutched her wound, pain burning through her body. Maren lunged, her sword silencing the traitor in a flash of steel.
But it was too late.
The damage was done.
Darkness crept at the edges of Lysandra's vision, her body slumping forward. Somewhere in the distance, voices were shouting.
But all she could hear was the whisper.
"You were never meant to run."
Then—everything went black.
Aldric's Next Move
Far above, in the grand halls of the palace, Aldric stood before his prisoners.
The captured rebels knelt in chains, their faces bruised, their spirits dimmed.
Aldric crouched before one of them, his voice deceptively soft. "Where are they running to?"
The rebel said nothing.
Aldric sighed. Then, without hesitation, he unsheathed his dagger and pressed it beneath the man's chin.
"I will find them either way," he murmured. "The difference is how much you suffer before I do."
A slow, cruel smile tugged at his lips.
Because he already knew the answer.
Lysandra was bleeding.
And wounded prey never gets far.