PART 3: THE BEGINNING OF THE GAME.

Achlys was stunned by her position. What had just happened? Her mind raced, trying to recollect the moment.

Alastor rubbed his eyes with one hand, clearing the last cobwebs of sleep. A low, satisfied rumble escaped him.

Achlys spun, heart pounding, to see the king rise from his bed in a robe that fell open across his broad chest. She had never been caught before — it had always been easy. Now… what would happen to her?

Alastor moved toward her and dropped to one knee before Achlys. “Another assassin?” he asked, his gaze traveling from her face down to the exposed skin at her chest. “You know, if you wanted me dead… you wouldn’t need a blade for that.”

Achlys’s eyes darkened; she remained silent. Alastor reached out and pulled her mask aside, exposing her face.

Her jaw tightened against the restraint she felt. She did not break eye contact.

Alastor studied her, amusement flickering at the edge of his expression. “You’re beautiful.” The words sank into her like a slow blade.

Achlys froze. Why compliment the woman who had come to take his life? Her eyes darted to the door as guards flooded into the chamber.

Confusion slammed into her. What mistake did I make? she thought. The whisper returned — You cannot kill one chosen by the gods.

Alastor rose, hands on his waist. “Seize her,” he commanded, calm as a winter tide. The chains around her wrists were loosened; two guards hauled her to her feet and dragged her from the bedchamber.

For a flicker, doubt creased Achlys’s face. Then a faint smile curved her lips. This is only the beginning of my game. Her customary confidence snapped back into place.

They took Achlys to the dungeon and locked her in a cell. Alastor ordered an immediate interrogation — then, after a moment’s thought, decided to question her himself.

She sat in the shadows, candle flames throwing small, stubborn lights across the cold stone. She showed no fear.

Alastor stood before the iron gate, expression unreadable. “Cyrus of Vaeloria sent you?” he asked, voice cool.

Achlys did not answer. She did not even blink.

A nobleman nearby—impatient and loud—rolled his eyes. “The king asked you a question,” he spat. “Are you mute or what?”

“Lance,” Alastor said softly, raising a hand to silence him. He turned back to the prisoner. “What is your name?”

Still nothing. Achlys lounged on the floor, boredom in her posture, eyes reluctant and steady. Lance’s frustration deepened; her insolence irked him.

Alastor looked away. “Bring the High Priestess,” he decided. “She will make the mime sing.” Lance followed without protest. Achlys was left under the watch of a single guard.

The High Priestess’s chamber smelled of old books and incense, moonlight stroking rows of tiny bonsai on the windowsill. Elaris tended them with a patient, ritual touch.

“Another assassin, my king?” she said as Alastor and Lance entered.

Lance leaned on the doorframe; Alastor accepted the watering can from Elaris and set it aside. “She refuses to speak,” he said plainly.

Elaris glanced up. “What would you have her say?” She paused, then asked, softer: “Why is she still alive?”

“She’s in the dungeon,” Lance replied curtly.

Elaris clicked her tongue. “Alastor—”

“She’s the first to breach the palace stronghold,” Alastor interrupted, voice threaded with something like curiosity. “She is not like the others who died at our gates. There is something…different about her. I can sense it.”

Lance scoffed. “Different how? She’s Vaelorian filth.”

Elaris took Alastor’s hand, searching his face. “What do you want from her?”

Alastor’s fingers tightened around hers for a heartbeat. “If she could pass the ward on my chamber doors… she might be Vaeloria’s most prized asset. Imagine what it would do to Cyrus to know we hold his weapon.” He let the thought settle between them.

Lance bristled. “How do you propose punishing her for treason?” he demanded.

A wicked smirk crossed Alastor’s features. “Can you curse her?” he asked Elaris, the light in his eyes dangerous. “A binding to keep her here — to twist her into our tether.”

Elaris released his hand, rifling through a shelf. Instead of a book, she drew out a dusty scroll.

Elaris’s eyes rose from the scroll and landed on Alastor and Lance. “It is a futile one, but it is the only one that could work.”

Alastor chuckled, low and amused. “How futile?”

“A curse that binds her to Erevania,” Elaris began, her tone dropping to something almost sacred, “but it is your curse—and it puts you in danger as well.”

Lance frowned, confusion lacing his voice. “How?”

“She will be marked with his blood,” Elaris said softly. “If she attempts to leave the kingdom, she’ll die. We just have to ensure that she does not break it.”

Alastor’s eyebrow arched. “If she breaks it?”

“The only way to break the curse,” Elaris’s voice turned cold, “is the death of her master… you, Alastor.”

Lance’s fists clenched, the veins in his arms tightening. “That’s fucking stupid, Elaris! Search for another curse.”

Alastor only smiled.

Lance turned to him, incredulous. “Why are you smiling? This is a serious matter.”

“It’s perfect, Elaris.” Alastor’s tone was calm, certain. “How do you suppose we mark her?”

Before anyone could move, he picked up a dagger from Elaris’s dresser.

The blade gleamed in the candlelight as he sliced his palm, blood dripping down his fingers.

He only grunted, unbothered by the pain.

Lance’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Elaris shook her head, the faintest sigh escaping her lips.

She knew how stubborn—how chaotically fearless—Alastor could be.