Chapter 98: Iskanda

I blinked through the haze of ash and embers, my eyes stinging from the acrid smoke that clung to the cavern like a bad perfume, and slowly, ever so slowly, I tilted my head back to peer up at the elevator’s scaffolding.

The figure up there—whoever or whatever had loosed that impossible arrow—was still shrouded in darkness, a silhouette that danced just out of reach, teasing the edges of my vision with fleeting movements that made my skin prickle with a mix of gratitude and suspicion.

Oh, great, I thought to myself, because nothing says ’heroic rescue’ like a shadowy archer playing hide-and-seek in the rafters—probably just waiting to see if I’m worth the second shot or if I’d make a better pincushion.

I smirked despite the panic bubbling in my gut like an overcooked stew, wiping a streak of grime from my cheek with the back of my hand.

I felt the sticky warmth of someone else’s blood—probably Brutus’s—smearing across my skin in a grotesque war paint that made me look like I’d lost a fight with a paintbrush.

“So,” I called up, trying for bravado but hitting somewhere closer to theatrical exhaustion, “are you here to save me, or just to give me a heart attack with style?”

Up there in the shadows, the figure shifted, a subtle ripple that sent a cascade of dust sifting down like infernal confetti.

Then a voice floated back—smooth, feminine, laced with a professionalism that could cut glass, the kind of tone that suggested she’d seen worse than this forge-pit brawl and filed it under ’mild inconvenience.’

“A bit of both,” she said. “You looked like you needed rescuing, though personally, I was enjoying the show.” Her quip landed like a velvet-gloved slap, witty and sharp, making me chuckle despite myself.

Before I could fire back with something equally snappy—maybe about her hiding spot being perfect for dramatic entrances or cowardly exits—she moved, a blur of motion that ended with her leaping from the scaffolding.

She plummeted down like a shadow given wings, her form twisting mid-air with an elegance that screamed ’professional badass’ rather than ’desperate fool.’

The impact when she hit the stone below was a deafening crack, the ground shuddering under my feet as if the earth itself had flinched.

Fissures spiderwebbed out from her landing point, kicking up a cloud of dust so thick it swallowed her whole for a heartbeat.

I jumped back in shock, my boots skidding on the grit-slick floor, my arms windmilling comically as I fought to keep my balance.

I strained to make out her details, my pulse racing not just from the near-miss but from the sheer audacity of that jump—who the hell drops from that height without a parachute or at least a prayer?

And then, as the dust settled in lazy swirls, my breath caught completely in my throat, hitching there like a fish on a line, because oh gods, she was beautiful—beyond beautiful, the kind of stunning that made my brain short-circuit and my inner monologue devolve into incoherent babbling.

Her skin was the tanned color of sun-warmed sand, smooth and glowing faintly in the forge’s hellish light as if she’d been sculpted from the desert itself and kissed by every ray that ever dared to shine.

Dark, messy hair spilled out from a half-strung ponytail, wild strands framing her face in a chaotic halo that somehow looked deliberate, like she’d tussled with the wind and won on her terms.

Her deep amber eyes locked onto mine, piercing and warm all at once, holding secrets that could probably fill a library of forbidden tomes, and oddly enough, her ears tapered to delicate points—a dark elf, no doubt.

What really snagged my attention, however, was the object tied around her neck: a silken collar, soft and luxurious against her skin, embroidered with intricate patterns that screamed opulence. Pinned at the front was a lavish gold emblem that gleamed like captured starlight.

I instantly realized what it meant—she had to be one of them, a Velvet-ranked slave.

My mind raced with the implications, inner thoughts tumbling like dice in a rigged game. A Velvet? Here? In this pit of despair? Either she’s slumming it for kicks, or the upper crust has a weird sense of tourism.

She straightened up from her crouch with a fluid grace that made my knees weaken just watching. She dusted off her hands as if pulverizing stone was part of her daily routine before flashing me a smile that was equal parts predatory and inviting, her pointed ears twitching slightly in the heat.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A little lost lamb in the lion’s den, or perhaps a fox playing at being prey?” Her voice was like honeyed wine, professional yet laced with a seductive undertone that wrapped around my senses.

She stepped closer, her movements deliberate, each one closing the gap between us with agonizing slowness.

I tried to uphold myself with wit, swallowing hard as I felt the air thicken, my heart doing somersaults in my chest—come on, Loona, don’t fold like a cheap card table, you’ve bantered with worse than a gorgeous dark elf in a death forge.

“Fox, definitely—though if you’re the lion, I might just volunteer for dinner,” I quipped back, my voice steadier than I felt, but inside I was a whirlwind.

Gods, her scent is like midnight jasmine mixed with danger, and those eyes are pulling me in like a siren’s call—focus, you idiot, she’s probably here to collect bounties, not compliments.

She chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated through me, and introduced herself with a tilt of her head.

“Iskanda, at your… service,” she purred, the word ’service’ dripping with implication.

Her motherly personality shone through in the way she looked at me—like I was a wayward child she wanted to scoop up and… well, educate.

Her clothing only amplified the erotic charge humming in the air, all black and scandalous, designed to tease and torment in equal measure. The fabric hugged her curves like a lover’s whisper, leaving just enough exposed to drive a saint to sin.

Her chest was bound in a tight wrap of supple silk, the material straining against her ample breasts, accentuating every breath she took with a subtle rise and fall that drew my eyes despite my best efforts.

Below, her thighs were deliciously exposed, powerful and toned, framed by a long strip of flowing fabric that draped between them like a forbidden curtain, swaying with each step and brushing against her skin in a way that made my imagination run wild.

Thigh-high boots of polished obsidian leather climbed her legs, molding to her calves with a scandalous grip, the tops laced with silver threads that caught the firelight and sparkled like stars on a sinful sky.

She stepped even closer before reaching out with her hand, fingers trailing lightly down my arm in a caress that sent electric shivers racing across my skin.

“You’re trembling, sweet thing,” Iskanda murmured, her voice a soothing coo as she leaned in, her breath warm against my ear as her fingers began dancing along my collarbone with feather-light precision.

I tried to quip back, something witty to regain control—”Trembling? Gods no, those are just the aftershocks from your dramatic entrance; you sure know how to make an earth-shaking impression.”

My words came out breathier than intended. She smiled that loving, maternal smile, her hand sliding lower to rest on my hip, pulling me gently but firmly against her, body heat seeping through my clothes like a promise.

“There, there, no need to fight it—let me take care of you now; you’ve been through so much, haven’t you, my brave little lamb?”

Her lips hovered dangerously close to mine. I felt myself stiffening in my panties, the fabric suddenly too tight, too constraining, as heat pooled in my core—panic and arousal warring inside.

By the time I started sweating, beads of it trickling down my spine like traitorous confessions, my breaths coming in heavy pants that I couldn’t hide, the others in my crew finally caught up.

They burst into the cavern from the walkway like a ragtag parade of the damned, their footsteps echoing in frantic staccato.

Atticus was in the lead, his glasses askew, eyes wide as he skidded to a halt. He gazed first at the Warden’s slumped body, and then at the scene before him.

Me, flushed and entangled in Iskanda’s embrace, looking every bit the swooning damsel in a trashy romance novel.

Dregan followed, limping but grinning through his bloodied beard while Freya hovered at the rear, her face a mask of quiet fear cracking into confusion.

Brutus—poor, bandaged Brutus—stumbled along with his stump now wrapped in hasty cloth, wincing with each step but eyes alert.

“What the hell just happened?!” Atticus blurted, his voice pitching high with frantic energy, waving his arms like he was conducting an invisible orchestra of panic. “One minute we’re dodging death, the next the Warden’s got a new ventilation system, and you’re… you’re… what, auditioning for a love scene?”

Freya chimed in, her voice shaky but sharp, stepping forward with hands on hips as she eyed Iskanda warily. “Who the fuck is she?”

Dregan laughed, a rough bark that echoed off the walls, leaning on his axe like a crutch as he wiped sweat from his brow.

“Aye, lass—or lad, whatever ye be—spill it: you the one what dropped that arrow? Looked like ye shot ’im with a cannon disguised as a stick!”

Brutus grunted in agreement. “And what’s with the collar? You some kinda fancy prisoner yourself?”

Iskanda disentangled herself from me with a graceful ease, leaving me swaying slightly and inwardly cursing my traitorous body.

She turned to them with that same motherly smile, her amber eyes twinkling with amusement as she addressed the barrage.

“Oh, dears, such questions—it’s like herding kittens in a storm,” Iskanda said smoothly, her professional tone cutting through the frenzy like a knife through butter.

She gestured vaguely toward the radio Atticus still clutched like a lifeline. “I picked up your distress signal on my rounds—nothing official, mind you; I was simply bored.”

The words hung heavy in the air, a casual admission that she’d slain the most powerful brute in the lower layers out of sheer boredom, like deciding to swat a fly because the book was dull.

Atticus blinked rapidly, adjusting his glasses as if that would make sense of it, his frantic mind whirring visibly.

“Boredom? You… you killed him just to check out the noise? But why haven’t you killed us yet? We’re not exactly on the guest list down here!”

Iskanda tilted her head, her messy ponytail swaying, and gave him a loving smile before continuing, her voice a soothing lullaby laced with steel.

“You’re escapees, right? Brave little rebels slipping the chains—oh, how I admire that fire in you all,” she cooed, stepping forward to pat Atticus’s cheek gently.

Atticus nodded slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in rough seas, clearly torn between terror and flattery.

Brutus, now steadier on his feet, stumbled forward a step, his voice gruff but laced with hope. “That’s great and all. But what now?”

Iskanda’s eyes lit up, her scandalous outfit shifting enticingly as she gestured toward the elevator with a flourish.

“You’ll come with me, of course—to the Velvet Chambers up top. There, we’ll get you situated and sorted out—clean clothes, hot meals, perhaps a bit of pampering for your wounds; no more scrabbling in the dirt like lost pups.”

I nearly melted with relief right there, my knees going weak as the tension uncoiled in my gut like a spring too long wound. Finally, a way out, courtesy of this erotic enigma.

But just as the words sank in, a low growl rumbled from behind me, guttural and wet, like gravel grinding in a throat full of blood.

The crew jumped back in horror, a collective gasp echoing as the Warden—impossibly, unbelievably—flipped himself over with a groan, his ruined chest heaving, that gaping hole bubbling with dark ichor that defied death’s grip.

Iskanda arched an eyebrow, though her smirk suggested mild annoyance rather than fear. I didn’t even flinch, my resolve hardening like cooling steel.

This bastard’s tougher than a cockroach in armor; time to chat before he regenerates into something worse.

I strolled up to the Warden with deliberate nonchalance, my boots clicking on the stone as I crouched beside him, peering into his mangled face with a cocked head.

“Well well, look who’s playing dead—thought that arrow was your curtain call, but here you are, auditioning for a sequel,” I said lightly, my voice dripping with mock sympathy, because wit was my shield, and right now I needed it sharp.

The Warden coughed up a glob of ichor, his vulgar tone rasping out like nails on slate. “You little shitstain—think you’re hot stuff now? I’ll gut you slow, make you beg like the whore you are.” He spat the words, trying to pull a reaction, but I merely sighed.

“Saints, you’re still talking?” I said, exasperation bleeding through the tremor in my voice. “You’ve got a hole the size of a soup bowl in your chest and that’s what you use your dying breath on? Insults? Honestly, you have to pace yourself. You’re about two death threats away from losing your last lung.”

I took a lazy step back, gesturing vaguely toward the gaping wound through his torso. “I mean, credit where it’s due, you’re persistent. I’d almost admire it if you weren’t currently leaking your personality all over the floor.”

Behind me, I heard Dregan snort, muttering something in dwarvish that probably translated to kick him while he’s down.

The Warden bared his teeth, black blood dripping down his chin. “You think you’ve won, little gutter rat? You’re just another piece of meat. I’ll—”

“—You’ll what?” I interrupted, smiling sweetly. “Bleed on me? Because if so, please don’t. I’m allergic to failure.”

That got him. His face twisted into something grotesque, part fury, part disbelief, part the realization that he was arguing with someone who truly didn’t care anymore.

I straightened up with a shrug before turning back toward the group, dusting my hands as if wiping off his filth.

Just then, his voice croaked out again, weaker but laced with malice. “Gods, you’re just like your sister.”

I whipped around so fast my neck cracked, the words hitting me like a sledgehammer to the chest, freezing me mid-step before rage propelled me forward in three leaping bounds.

My hands gripped the collar of his armor with white-knuckled fury. My eyes were wild with a storm of rage, desperation, and confusion all at once. Mysister? How the fuck does he know about her?

I yanked him up, his head lolling but still smirking. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The Warden merely began to laugh, a wet, gurgling sound that mocked me, his good eye twinkled with cruel delight. “Look at you, all riled up—fucking ridiculous.”

I pressed further, my voice cracking as tears welled unbidden, streaming down my face in hot trails that mixed with the grime.

“What do you know about my sister? About my past life? Tell me everything!” He wheezed another laugh, refusing to budge, his silence a final twist of the knife. “Is she alive? Answer me, you bastard—is she?!”

The Warden’s grin widened, but he said nothing more, just stared with that infuriating smugness. I pulled back, breath ragged, and thrust out my arm toward Brutus, my voice steady despite the turmoil.

“Hand me the shotgun.”

Brutus hesitated a beat, his arm fumbling as he passed it over, along with a handful of bullets that clinked like judgment bells.

I loaded the chamber with quiet efficiency, each shell sliding in with a click that echoed my resolve. I cocked it with a satisfying snap, holding it up to the Warden’s face.

“What’s the matter, did I strike a nerve?”

“Fuck you.”

I pulled the trigger without hesitation, the blast deafening, blowing his head clean off in a spray of gore that painted the stone red.

I tossed Brutus back the gun with a casual flick, the weapon clattering as he caught it, and stormed away from the Warden’s body.

My steps fell heavy with unresolved fury—no time to dwell, Loona, push it down. The rest of the crew stood laced with confusion, eyes darting between the headless corpse and me, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Atticus stopped me by the shoulder, his grip firm but tentative. His voice was laced with concern. “Loona, what the hell was that all about? Sister? Past life?” He paused for a moment. “Who are you really? That wasn’t just anger—that was personal.”

I nearly folded then, the weight of secrets pressing like a vice, but no—I couldn’t tell them, not now, not in this mess.

“That’s not important right now,” I said, though my voice sounded lighter than my heart.

Iskanda smirked, not even seeming bothered by the execution as she leaned against the elevator frame with casual poise. Her amber eyes twinkled as if it were all part of the show.

Just then, the sounds of mangled shouting erupted from all the way across the forge, a cacophony of rage and commands bouncing off the walls like errant cannon fire.

“Find him! Find that beast and kill him—tear this place apart if you have to!”

The voices grew closer, accompanied by the clang of boots and weapons, a horde descending like vengeful spirits. And then he emerged from the smoke and shadows—broken, bruised, limping but alive.

His face was matted with blood and soot, eyes blazing with a primal fury I’d never seen in him before.

It was Yolmear.

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