RHYS TORLIN IS ON THE MOVE. With only his wits and ideals, he infiltrates Synketros in hopes of unlocking the secret to its soldiers' loyalty. When a plan goes awry and found friends putting themselves into trouble to save him, Rhys must choose betw...
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The world came slowly in green, then in blue, until it settled on red. Rhys' chest heaved, but he was breathing. Which meant one thing: he's alive. His recent memories showed him nothing but the dark and a woman with a smile that made him not want to go anywhere in her periphery.
He had half a mind to think he already had.
As his senses slowly returned, he realized many things. One—he sat on a backed chair, his legs splayed out before him. Two—his arms were stuck to his sides, as if he's bound by thick twines spun around him and the chair's back too many times. When he looked down at his form, he realized one last thing—nothing tied him to anything. It's as if his limbs had decided one moment to stop moving and act like they were chained down. Was he...was that some kind of a containment spell?
A voice hummed in approval. "You're awake? That's fast," she said. The tone was gentle—kind even. She suggested they could be the best of friends, and that he could tell her anything. He would divulge all his secrets, and she would keep it to the ends of the world. But, as the colors melded and diverged in Rhys' vision—the blobs gaining more and more detail, sharpness, and focus—he saw her face.
She was the same woman who greeted him inside the tent before the darkness overtook him. His name. She knew his name—up to the last letter and syllable. He couldn't hide anything from her. He tried.
But...how?
How come she knew it's him while the Sovereign didn't?
A chuckle caught his attention back to the woman sitting in the middle of the tent in the same three-legged stool he remembered seeing her on last. Her dark brown hair was primed up her head in a strict bun, not a strand out of place. An inky blue coat complimented her pale skin, and a pair of riding breeches hugged her legs to the last curve. Sleek, black boots caught residual light from the outside world, glinting when she uncrossed her legs.
"I have to give it to you for fooling Xyris for as long as you have," the woman said. The name twanged inside Rhys' sluggish mind. He wasn't the best person to talk to upon waking up. "She must be getting old to have let a measly fool like you slip past her senses."
Xyris. The Sovereign? And if they knew each other enough to call the other by name—one that's already lost to people and to the years—then, this woman couldn't be anyone else.
She was the Heiress.
When Rhys failed to give a coherent answer, she gave another soft laugh. This one wasn't amused. It wasn't mocking, either. It was just...void of humor to even be considered a laugh. Maybe it's just a breath out of her lips. She craned her neck to the ceiling, making Rhys realize he's inside the same tent he'd crashed, and that the lights have never really dimmed despite it being close to night time in the outside world. Did she...manipulate time inside this space so she could have a heart-to-heart with Rhys? Touching.
"I assure you, dear Rhys," the Heiress continued, her eyes sparkling with a hidden malice. For once, he was glad it wasn't directed on him. "The Sovereign is not going to go easy on you."
