The forest air was rich with the scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles. Celia sat against the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, her wrists still bound with conjured vine, her silver hair tangled and dulled by dried blood and dirt. A light breeze rustled the canopy overhead, dappling her pale skin with shifting shadows. Somewhere nearby, a bird chirped, unconcerned with the storm brewing inside the elf.

  She hadn’t moved much. Not because she couldn’t—though the bindings made sure of that, coiled tight around her wrists like serpents of living wood—but because she refused to give them the satisfaction. Every time the vines tightened when she twitched, every time a root flexed in response to her shifting weight, she reminded herself that pain was temporary. Pride was not.

  Jack had said what he came to say. No embellishments. No apologies. Just the plain truth, dropped into the air like a blade falling point-down. Then he’d turned and walked away—casual, calm, like he hadn’t just shattered the axis of her entire world. Like he hadn’t broken something vital inside her with that calm, even voice.

  Irivan was dead.

  Her partner. Her blade-brother. The one constant in her life since she’d been taken into House Hightower’s fold. He had been more than a fellow soldier; he had been a second shadow, always at her back, his sword moving as if tethered to hers. When they fought, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Irivan had always known what she needed before she even knew herself. And now, he was gone—cut down by the very man who had bound her, then dared to ask for her help like it was a reasonable thing.

  Jack wanted her cooperation.

  That smug, too-honest man, with his quiet confidence and maddeningly rational tone. He didn’t seem haunted by what he’d done. Maybe he believed the cause justified it. Maybe he’d already filed Irivan’s death away as another unfortunate necessity. But Celia wasn’t ready to file it anywhere. It still roared inside her, red and raw and endless.

  And he wanted her help.

  He had no idea what he was asking. Or maybe he did—and asked anyway.

  And that blasted crystal.

  She clenched her jaw, fingers twitching involuntarily. Even now, just thinking of the shard made her pulse quicken. A true Light-attuned crystal. The kind of relic that could let her finally wield the Light magic that was her birthright. With it, House Hightower might finally see her for what she was: not a disappointment, not a charity case, but a rising star. Someone worthy of legacy. Someone they couldn’t ignore.

  Celia closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her lids, she saw the faces of her instructors again. The cold nods. The polite silences. The expectations never quite met. Her magic was strong, her skill with fire well-honed, and her loyalty to Hightower unshakable. But none of it had ever been enough. She wasn’t noble-born, they said, not really. Just another bastard child hoping to climb her way up the ranks. She had to earn every scrap of recognition.

  They never forgot where she came from. No matter how many missions she completed or how cleanly she executed her orders, there was always that quiet pause before they spoke her name. A hesitation. A reminder that she didn’t quite belong. This crystal could change that. It could finally make them see her—not just as competent, but as powerful. As necessary.

  But the price—

  Jack had killed Irivan. The memory still clawed at her, jagged and raw. She remembered the way his body had crumpled, the light in his eyes fading as Jack pulled his spear free. She had screamed, but not in fear. In fury. White-hot and blinding. Then darkness had claimed her.

  She didn’t remember hitting the ground. Only the heat of shame when she woke, bound and helpless, surrounded by the very people she had tried to kill. The looks they gave her weren’t cruel—no, that would have been easier to stomach. Instead, they looked at her with something worse: pity. Like she was a storm that had already passed.

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  Monsoon stirred nearby. The blue Wavewolf didn’t make much noise, but Celia felt the shift in the air as his body moved, fluid and alert. She cracked open one eye, meeting the creature’s gaze. Intelligent. Watchful.

  He hadn’t left her side for long. She’d expected a rotating guard, maybe a spell circle to keep her pinned. But Monsoon had stayed longest. Perhaps they trusted him most. Or maybe they just didn’t think she could get past the powerfully muscled wolf.

  They were probably right.

  Still, she wasn’t without options. Her mana had replenished itself by now. Without her focus and with her hands bound, she would have to rely on weak spells that only had a verbal component. But a flicker of fire? That was doable. If she had time, she could burn through the vines. Slowly, quietly.

  Then what? Even if she got past the wolf, what would she do? Run? Alone, deep in unknown woods, without any supplies? Every direction looked the same—dense, dark, and unfriendly. No compass. No map. No plan.

  She exhaled, letting her head thump gently against the bark behind her.

  “Stupid,” she muttered.

  Monsoon growled softly at the sound, his head tilting. Celia gave him a dry look.

  “Not you. Me.”

  The wolf blinked slowly, then resumed his silent vigil.

  And Celia began to count the seconds between his breaths.

  Her mind drifted back to Jack’s face. He hadn’t gloated. That was the worst part. He hadn’t tried to justify Irivan’s death, hadn’t made excuses. He had simply told her, flatly, and left the truth sitting between them like a bloody knife.

  I should kill you. Like I killed your friend.

  No embellishment. No malice. Just fact. And it had hurt. Not because it was cruel, but because it had been true. She and Irivan had attacked first. They had drawn blades, confident in their superiority, believing Jack and his misfit crew to be nothing more than wildcards on the field.

  They had been wrong. Horribly, fatally wrong.

  And now she was here. Chained. Humiliated. Offered a bargain by the man who had stolen Irivan from her.

  “Cooperation,” she whispered. “That’s what he wants.”

  But what did she want?

  To prove herself. To House Hightower. To her instructors. To her doubters.

  The crystal could do that. Light magic was the signature of House Hightower. If she bonded with it and returned with an unclaimed Dungeon location, no one could ever question her place again.

  Of course, she would either have to kill Jack or work out some sort of deal with him before returning to Stonetree. Otherwise, he might contest any Hightower soldiers who came to secure the Dungeon.

  Celia shifted slightly, testing the vines again. Still firm.

  Jack had said he’d return soon. That she should think about it. He had no idea how much she already had.

  If she accepted, she would be betraying Irivan’s memory. Siding with the people who had killed him. She’d be branded a traitor if anyone from House Hightower ever found out. Irivan may have been of low rank and not highly regarded because of his human heritage, but he was still a member of the House after all.

  But what had Irivan really wanted for her? To stay bitter? Chained to the past? Or to rise, no matter the cost?

  He had always been the one to encourage her in the past, the only one to truly believe in her.

  Would he understand?

  She didn’t know. That was the worst part. Irivan had always been the idealist. She, the realist. He would have wanted her to keep fighting.

  Maybe this was the only way.

  A rustle from the trees drew her attention. Monsoon stood, ears perked, growling low in his throat. A heartbeat later, Lyla stepped into view. The Scraeling spellcaster looked tired but her emerald hued face was composed, her staff resting across her back.

  “You’re lucky we didn’t leave you to rot,” Lyla said without preamble.

  The elf didn’t rise to the bait. “And you’re lucky I haven’t decided to bite off my own hand and strangle you with it.”

  Lyla gave a small snort, but she didn’t smile. “He’ll be back soon. I suggest you think very carefully about what you’re going to say.”

  Celia narrowed her eyes. “He thinks he can buy my loyalty.”

  “No,” Lyla replied, voice low. “He thinks you have enough sense to survive. Loyalty doesn’t factor in.”

  Then she turned and walked off again, vanishing into the trees. Monsoon didn’t follow. He sat, ever-vigilant, watching Celia as if daring her to make a move.

  She didn’t. Not yet.

  But when Jack returned, she knew what she would say. She didn’t have to forgive him. She didn’t have to like him. But she would use him.

  And one day, she might even make him pay for Irivan.

  But first, she would take the crystal.

  Because she was done being overlooked.

  Because House Hightower would see her.

  Even if it meant dancing with the devil who wore honesty like armor and killed without flinching.

  She leaned back, gaze rising to the sky beyond the trees.

  “I accept,” she whispered to herself.

  When Jack returned, she would tell him aloud.

  Not as a supplicant.

  But as a future equal.

  And maybe, just maybe, something more.