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Chapter 62 – Shadows in the Keep
Midnight draped the keep in silence, broken only by the occasional shuffle of boots on patrol. Elira kept to the upper corridors, where shadows ran deep and torchlight was thin.
Lysander was moving carefully. Too carefully.
She had seen him slip out of the council chamber earlier than the rest, offering some excuse about checking the north watchtower. But instead of heading north, he'd cut through an unlit passage toward the outer storage wings.
Now, Elira followed at a distance, her cloak blending into the cold stone. Her dagger lay light in her hand—not to use, but to remind herself that she could.
He didn't take the main stair. He went lower, into the unused cellars beneath the forge where only the quartermasters ever ventured. The air smelled of coal and rust, and the old torches on the wall hadn't been lit in weeks.
Too perfect for a secret meeting, Elira thought grimly.
She waited until his footsteps faded around a corner, then moved quickly, silent as a shadow. Her boots found every quiet patch of ground, every broken step avoided.
Ahead, faint light flared—brief, controlled. A lantern shutter opening for only a heartbeat before closing again.
Elira ducked behind a pillar, straining to listen. Two voices murmured in the dark. Lysander's low and even, and another—rougher, unfamiliar.
"…you said the manifests were destroyed," the stranger muttered.
"They were," Lysander replied calmly. "Which means our timeline must move faster. Vale isn't the only one circling. If Kairo tightens security, we'll lose our access routes."
Elira's blood went cold. So it's true.
The stranger hissed, "We can't move faster without drawing attention. What about the next shipment?"
"It's already arranged," Lysander said. "By the time Kairo realizes who's pulling the strings, it'll be too late."
Elira pressed closer, heart pounding, careful to keep her breathing even. One wrong sound and she'd be cornered in the dark with no escape.
The stranger's lantern flared again briefly, and Elira caught a glimpse of a cloak marked with the same wolf-and-vine seal burned into the satchel.
"Good," Lysander murmured. "Keep the gates distracted. I'll take care of the council."
The lantern snapped shut. Footsteps moved away—two sets now, heading deeper into the cellars.
Elira stayed hidden, waiting until the echoes faded completely. Only then did she dare move. Her thoughts were sharp, racing:
Lysander was working with whoever carried that seal.
They were planning something immediate.
And Kairo didn't suspect a thing.
Elira tightened her grip on her dagger. She had proof now—her own eyes and ears. But confronting Kairo tonight would put him on edge, and Lysander might sense her suspicion.
No. She needed to track Lysander further. Watch where he went next.
Because this wasn't just betrayal. This was war forming in the dark.
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Elira moved quickly to the corner where Lysander and the cloaked figure had disappeared. The cellar corridor narrowed into an arch barely wide enough for two people. The stone was damp here, and the air carried a faint metallic tang—blood or rust, she couldn't tell.
A thin draft whispered along the wall. Elira ran her hand over the stone until she felt the groove of a hidden latch. She pressed, and a narrow door eased open just enough to reveal blackness beyond.
She slipped inside, leaving it ajar by a hair's breadth, and followed the sound of retreating boots down a winding passage. The deeper she went, the more the keep above felt like a distant memory. The torches here burned low, almost deliberately faint, and every corner smelled of secrets long kept.
The voices ahead rose and fell.
"…Kairo won't move unless he's forced," Lysander was saying. "So we'll force him."
The other man grunted. "And the girl?"
Elira froze.
"She's clever," Lysander said, tone unreadable. "Too clever to underestimate. But she's also loyal—to him. That makes her predictable. I'll handle her."
The words settled like ice in Elira's chest.
They turned sharply into a vaulted chamber lit by two iron braziers. Elira stayed in the passage's mouth, just far enough to see without being seen.
Crates lined the walls—supplies, weapons, maps scattered over a table. The wolf-and-vine emblem was painted across one crate in deep red ink. This wasn't a meeting spot. It was a staging ground.
The cloaked man pulled back his hood, revealing a scar running from temple to jaw. "We can't wait much longer. Vale's men are sniffing around, and if they find us—"
"They won't," Lysander cut him off smoothly. "By the time Kairo knows what's happening, his gates will be open, and his own people will beg for new leadership."
The scarred man sneered. "And you'll be ready to step in."
Lysander didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Elira's heart pounded so loud she feared it would give her away. She needed to get out—back through the passage before they doubled back. But as she stepped away, her heel brushed loose gravel, the faint scrape echoing far too loud.
Both men snapped their heads toward the sound.
"Who's there?" the scarred man barked, drawing a blade.
Elira bolted into the dark passage, boots silent on stone, moving faster than she'd ever dared. Behind her, voices shouted, footsteps pounded. Someone slammed the secret door closed—either to trap her inside or to stop her from leading others to it.
She didn't slow. Somewhere up ahead, the passage split. Left or right—she chose left on instinct, praying it didn't dead-end.
A faint light glimmered far ahead. If she could reach it, she could slip back into the keep unseen.
But the pounding footsteps were closer now.
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The passage tilted downward, slick with condensation. Elira's boots slid on the stone, but she kept her footing, the faint light ahead pulling her like a lifeline. Behind her, steel clanged as one of the men's blades scraped the wall.
"Stop!" Lysander's voice carried, sharp and commanding—not at her, but at his companion. "Don't kill her. Not yet."
The words sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through her veins. Not yet. Which meant they needed her alive… for something.
Elira rounded a bend and nearly crashed into a heavy iron grate. Rusted bars blocked the way, the faint light spilling from the other side like a promise of safety. She shoved against it—locked solid.
Footsteps pounded closer. The scarred man's voice rang out behind her. "There's no way out, girl!"
Elira scanned the wall desperately, fingers brushing over old chains, a winch half-buried in stone. She threw her weight on it, muscles straining. The mechanism groaned in protest, rust flaking away, but it moved—slow, agonizingly slow.
The grate rose just enough for her to drop flat and slide under, the rough stone scraping her shoulders. She rolled to her feet on the other side, breath ragged, and shoved the winch again so the grate slammed down between her and her pursuers.
Lysander appeared at the bars, calm despite the chase. His companion growled in frustration, rattling the grate.
"You can't run forever, Elira," Lysander said, voice steady, almost conversational. "If you're smart, you'll come back and let me explain."
Elira stepped back into the torchlight. "I've heard enough."
His expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "Then Kairo will too, I suppose? Careful what you tell him. Truth and lies are hard to separate in the dark."
Before she could answer, he turned away, signaling to the scarred man. Their footsteps faded into the passage's depths.
Elira didn't waste a second. She ran through the narrow corridor until it opened into an old storage hall near the lower gate—abandoned, dusty, but blessedly above ground. She leaned against the wall, chest heaving.
Proof. She had it now—not written on paper, but burned into her memory. Lysander was working against Kairo. And he wasn't alone.
But if she told Kairo now, without evidence he could hold in his hands, would he believe her? Or would Lysander turn suspicion back on her?
Elira straightened, brushing grit from her cloak. She had to move fast—before Lysander spun his own story.
And somewhere in the keep, she knew Kairo was already looking for her.
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