The air inside the castle felt different. Not just thick with tension, but charged—like something was coming, something inevitable. Nexar had felt it from the moment they stepped back within these walls. It wasn't just hostility or suspicion anymore. It was a trap waiting to be sprung.
Still, he moved like he belonged, keeping his strides even, his breath steady. His companion walked beside him, their presence a quiet reassurance, but it wouldn't be enough. Not if he didn't act fast.
He had spent years navigating the political undercurrents of this kingdom, learning how to see the moves before they were made. He knew when a door was just a door—and when it was a cage closing in.
And right now?
The whole castle felt like a cage.
A shadow stepped forward from one of the torch-lit corridors, blocking their path. Nexar didn't flinch, didn't let the unease show on his face. He recognized the man immediately. Commander Taren. A high-ranking officer, not a council lackey, but someone with initiative.
That was worse.
Because men like Taren didn't wait for orders. They acted.
And that meant one of two things—either the council had predicted Nexar's every move, or this was something else entirely.
Something worse.
Taren's posture was relaxed, one hand resting too comfortably on the hilt of his sword. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
"It's impressive, really," Taren mused, his voice smooth. "You lasted longer than most in your position. You should have disappeared when you had the chance."
Nexar let out a slow breath, measuring his words carefully. "And here I thought my presence was valued."
Taren gave a slow shake of his head. "You were tolerated."
Nexar's companion shifted slightly, but Nexar lifted a hand—wait.
Because this wasn't a random encounter.
This was a message.
Taren wasn't just here to stop him. He wanted him to understand something first.
"You know," Taren continued, voice light, conversational, "the council believes you're plotting treason." He tilted his head, as if considering his own words. "At first, I disagreed. I thought you were smarter than that."
Nexar met his gaze steadily. "And now?"
Taren's fingers flexed against the hilt of his sword. "Now?" A slight smirk. "Now, I think you're desperate."
Nexar nearly laughed.
If only they knew.
"I think we both know," he said, voice calm, "that I don't do desperation."
Taren's smirk remained, but there was something colder beneath it now. A flicker of irritation.
"We'll see," he muttered.
And then—
He moved.
It was fast, precise—a soldier's strike. His sword sliced through the air, cutting through the dim torchlight.
Nexar twisted—just barely. The blade skimmed his sleeve, tearing fabric but missing flesh. He was faster than he should have been. The magic in his veins pulsed, coiled, barely restrained. He could end this fight in a breath.
But not yet.
Not here.
Taren came again, this time not alone. Shadows moved behind him—other knights, waiting for their moment.
Nexar's companion drew their weapon, stepping forward to guard his flank. Nexar exhaled through his nose. "Really?" he muttered. "I thought we were having a conversation."
Taren didn't reply. He lunged.
Nexar met him halfway.
Their blades clashed, the sound ringing through the narrow hall. Sparks flew as steel met steel. Taren fought with discipline, each strike meant to disable, to pin Nexar down.
But Nexar?
Nexar fought with purpose.
He wasn't stronger. But he didn't need to be.
He shifted—fast, precise. Let Taren's momentum carry him just a little too far.
And then—
He struck.
A clean cut across the commander's side—not deep, not fatal, but enough to stagger him. Enough to send a message.
Taren stumbled, clutching his side, breath sharp. He looked down at the blood staining his fingers, then back at Nexar with something almost like reluctant respect.
Still, he chuckled. "The council will find you."
Nexar's smile was sharp, deadly. "Then they'd better hurry."
Because by the time they did?
It would already be too late.
The council chamber was quiet. Too quiet.
The tension in the room was suffocating, pressing down like a heavy fog. They had made their move. They had sent their men, given their orders.
And still—
Nexar was not in chains.
A chair scraped back, breaking the silence. One of them, a younger member, exhaled sharply. "We should have contained him sooner."
A scoff from the far side of the room. "Contained him?" the older councilman repeated, voice lined with dry amusement. "You make it sound like we had a choice."
"He's one man." The younger one sounded almost angry now. "How has he evaded everything we've thrown at him?"
A sharp silence.
Then, another voice. Cool, measured. "Because we forced his hand."
The council turned. The one who had spoken was one of the eldest, a man who had survived too many kings, too many wars to speak carelessly. His expression was unreadable, but his words carried weight.
"We moved too soon," he continued. "He was still watching, still waiting. And now?" His gaze swept across the room. "Now, we've given him a reason to act."
No one spoke.
Because they knew he was right.
This wasn't just about Nexar anymore.
The kingdom itself was shifting, the ground beneath them cracking.
And the man they had been so eager to eliminate was about to become the very force that determined which way it all collapsed.
Far from the council chamber, in the castle's lower corridors, Nexar moved swiftly, his steps quiet against the stone. Every second counted now.
Taren had been a test, a warning. Next time, it wouldn't just be a warning.
His allies were already in motion. Hidden hands, whispered names. The council thought they held all the pieces, that they controlled the board.
But Nexar wasn't playing by their rules anymore.
He was making his own.
And the next move?
Was his.