“He has access.” Sylas’s mind raced through the fortress’s security architecture, the passages and privileges that different factions controlled, the web of permissions and protocols that governed movement through his own domain. “The religious quarters connect to the under-fortress through maintenance corridors that haven’t been officially used in generations. The pit guards answer to the council, not directly to me. And the timing—” He paused, fitting pieces together. “The disturbance at the northern grid yesterday. The ‘Fallen sighting’ that pulled half my Sabers off their posts for three hours. It was a test. A probe. Someone was learning our response patterns.”
Ryxin’s growl was low and continuous, a bass note of fury that vibrated through the stone beneath their feet. “Vask has been circling your human since the blessing. Every council session, every court appearance—he watches her like she’s something he wants to dissect. Something he wants to own.”
“She carries Lux’s scent.” Sylas didn’t bother hiding the possessive edge in his voice. “He believes that makes her a religious asset rather than a royal one. That she should be controlled by the faithful, not the crown.”
“He can believe whatever he wants.” Ryxin bared his fangs. “I’ll educate him on the consequences of touching what belongs to this bloodline.”
For a moment—just a moment—Sylas felt something other than fury. His brother, who had challenged him at every turn, who had made his reign a constant negotiation of power and threat, standing beside him with violence in his eyes and loyalty in his stance. Not because Sylas was king. Not because duty demanded it.
Because someone had taken their females. And that transcended every other consideration.
“We do this together.” The words came out before Sylas could examine them. “A strike team. Small enough to move withoutalerting the court, large enough to handle whatever we find. Loyal Sabers only—ones I’ve personally vetted, those who’ve proven themselves in blood and battle, not politics.”
Ryxin’s attention sharpened. “And the public face?”
“Business as usual.” The lie burned, but it was necessary. A king’s duty. “We continue as if nothing has changed. Let whoever did this think they have time. Let them believe we’re still searching, still confused, still playing by their rules.”
“While we hunt.”
“While we hunt.”
The scent trail led deeper into the under-fortress. Sylas followed it with Ryxin at his side, moving through passages that grew older and darker with every turn. The torches here were sparse, their light barely enough to see by, but Sylas’s night vision painted the world in shades of gray and amber. The stone was ancient—carved before the current dynasty, before the Fallen, before Lux’s blessing had reshaped their world into something worth fighting for.
Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. The sound echoed off walls that remembered older horrors than anything Sylas had lived through. These passages had been carved when the fortress was young, when the first Yzefrxyl kings had built their power on blood and conquest rather than treaties and trade. The stone still held those memories. Still whispered of violence done in shadows, of rivals eliminated, of threats ended before they could become challenges.
The trail faded at a junction where three corridors met. Chemical interference—something had been used to mask the scent, professional and deliberate. The same sedative compound, but concentrated, deployed in a way that spoke of planning rather than panic. Sylas pressed his palm against the wall, claws scraping stone that held no answers.
“Here.” Ryxin crouched near the floor, attention fixed on a barely-visible mark in the dust. “Someone tried to cover tracks. They missed this.”
Sylas moved to look. A partial print—Yzefrxyl, based on the claw pattern, but wearing banded boots designed for the religious quarters. Formal wear. Ceremonial. The kind of footwear that had no business in maintenance corridors unless someone was using those corridors for purposes they shouldn’t be.
Someone high-ranking. Someone who had legitimate access to these passages and chose to use that access for betrayal.
The rage crystallized into something colder. Sharper. The bond still lay silent in his chest—Elsa still beyond his reach, still drugged or restrained or worse—but now he had a direction. A target. A beginning.
“Whoever did this,” Sylas said quietly, “had inside access. Not just to these passages, but to the security schedules. To the Saber rotations. To the exact window where a diversion would pull attention away long enough for a coordinated extraction of three separate targets.”
Ryxin straightened, and something in his expression shifted. The fury remained, but beneath it, Sylas saw the same calculating mind that had nearly stolen his throne three times in as many decades. His brother was many things—violent, ambitious, perpetually challenging—but he wasn’t stupid.
“The pit access schedules are managed by the council’s administrative staff,” Ryxin said slowly. “But the Saber rotation assignments go through your war council directly.”
The implication settled like ice in Sylas’s gut.
Not just someone with religious access. Someone with military access. Someone who sat in rooms where tactical information was discussed and security vulnerabilities were laidbare. Someone who had listened when Sylas discussed Elsa’s movements, her routines, the Sabers assigned to her protection.
The traitor wasn’t just in his fortress. They were in his inner circle. Had been sitting at his table, listening to his plans, watching him fall for a human female and calculating exactly how to use that weakness against him.
“We tell no one.” Sylas’s voice came out flat. Final. The voice of a king who had just learned that trust was a luxury he could no longer afford. “Not the council. Not the advisors. Not even Yarx, until we know exactly who can be trusted. We assemble the strike team from Sabers who have never attended war council meetings. Those whose loyalty has been tested in blood, not politics.”
Ryxin nodded once. The alliance held—fragile, unprecedented, forged in the shared furnace of fury and loss.
“How long?” his brother asked.
Sylas turned from the junction, already mapping the routes they would need to take, the personnel they could trust, the narrow window they had before whoever held their females realized the hunters were closing in. Before Vask—or whoever had orchestrated this—decided that leverage was less valuable than elimination.
“Not long.” He let the promise carry all the violence he couldn’t yet release. “They wanted to see how I would react. They wanted to know if a human female could make the Alpha King lose control.”
His claws flexed, and somewhere deep in his chest, in the hollow space where the bond should have hummed with Elsa’s presence, something dark and patient began to coil. Something old. Something that had ruled this fortress before mercy became a consideration. Something that had been waiting, dormant, for exactly the right reason to wake.