Chapter 28
The castle halls stretched before me like the inside of some ancient creature’s ribcage, all arched stone and shadows that breathed.
My boots thudded against marble that probably cost more than my entire life back home, and I tried not to think about how easily I’d gotten used to that.
To wealth I hadn’t earned, safety I hadn’t fought for, warmth that didn’t come with a blade pressed to my throat as payment.
The garden moment with Varyth clung to my skin like smoke.
His hand on my thigh. The way he’d leaned into me like I was the only solid thing in a world made of mist and lies.
The quiet between us that had felt like understanding instead of the usual battlefield of words neither of us knew how to say.
But Merrick’s voice kept crawling back through my thoughts with all the persistence of rot.
Varyth isn’t who he seems. You deserve to know what you’re caught in the middle of before you make any irreversible choices.
Fuck tender moments. Fuck the way Varyth’s thumb had stroked against my leg like he was trying to memorise the shape of me. I needed answers, and I needed them before whatever fragile thing was building between us collapsed under the weight of secrets I was too stupid to demand.
Cindrissian would know. Had to know. He’d been at Nyxaria when Merrick was there, the venom in their exchange in that cave had made that abundantly clear. And if anyone in this gods-damned castle was going to give me unvarnished truth wrapped in cryptic bullshit and a smirk, it was him.
A servant appeared around a corner, young, maybe nineteen.
“Excuse me,” I said, and watched her nearly jump out of her skin. “Do you know where I can find Cindrissian?”
Her eyes went wide. “The Master of—” She caught herself, smoothed her expression. “His chambers are in the eastern wing. Third floor, end of the corridor with the stained glass window of the moon phases.”
“Thank you.” The words came out softer than I’d intended, remembering what it was like to be that young and that scared in places where you didn’t belong.
She dipped her head and scurried off like I might change my mind about being civil.
I found the corridor easily enough, the stained glass window was impossible to miss, all silver and deep blues that caught the evening light and threw it across the floor in patterns that looked like water.
The door at the end was plain compared to some of the ornate nightmares I’d seen in this place.
Dark wood, simple iron handle, no embellishments or warnings or whatever the fuck immortal fae usually put on their doors.
I knocked before I could talk myself out of it.
Silence. Then the cadence of footsteps that suggested whoever was coming had already known I was there long before my knuckles hit wood.
The door swung open.
Cindrissian stood there in what I could only describe as comfortable disarray.
No formal court attire, no leather armour, just a simple black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and navy pants that looked like they’d been lived in.
His dark hair was slightly mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it, and those crimson eyes fixed on me with that familiar mix of amusement and assessment.
“Isara.” My name curled off his tongue with that infuriating smirk already forming. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We need to talk. About Merrick.”
Cindrissian’s smirk widened into something that was almost genuine. “Well. This should be interesting.” He stepped back, gesturing into the room with theatrical flourish. “Please, come in. Try not to judge my interior decorating choices too harshly.”
I stepped past him into the chambers and promptly froze.
This was—
Not what I expected. Not even close.
I’d been braced for cold. Clinical. The kind of space that screamed, I interrogate people for a living and keep my emotions in a locked box under the floorboards. Maybe some tasteful weapons on the walls, a desk covered in maps and correspondence, the aesthetic of controlled menace.
Instead, I walked into a space that felt almost...lived in.
A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm light across furniture that looked like it had been collected over centuries rather than purchased as a matching set.
An armchair upholstered in deep burgundy velvet sat next to a reading chair covered in worn leather, both positioned to face the fireplace.
A low table between them held an empty glass and a book left open, pages crinkled from use.
Books. Everywhere. Stacked on shelves that lined two walls floor to ceiling, piled on the floor in teetering columns, scattered across surfaces like he’d been reading three at once and couldn’t be bothered to put them back.
The covers were worn, the pages dog-eared, these weren’t decorative. These were loved.
Papers covered a large desk in the corner, filled with cramped writing I couldn’t read from here. A worn throw in shades of grey and blue was tossed over the back of the burgundy chair. And on the wall above the fireplace, a painting.
Large, breathtaking, so detailed I could almost hear the crash of water against rock.
Ocean waves throwing themselves against cliffs with the kind of violence that looked like fury and grief had a child.
The colours were storm-dark blues and whites, foaming greens, the cliffs rendered in shades of grey that made them look both ancient and fragile.
It was beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. Beauty that came from understanding loss.
“I—” The words died in my throat because I genuinely didn’t know what to say. This room felt like a secret I hadn’t earned. Like walking into someone’s diary.
“I don’t usually entertain.” Cindrissian’s voice had lost its usual edge of performance, going quiet in a way that made him sound younger. Almost vulnerable. He was standing just inside the closed door, watching me take in his space with an expression I’d never seen on him before.
Awkward.
The Master of Interrogations, the male who’d followed me through a city at night without breaking a sweat, who moved through shadows like he’d been born there, looked genuinely uncomfortable with me seeing where he lived.
“It’s…” I tried to find words that wouldn’t sound like pity or judgment. “It’s nice. Cozy. Not what I expected from someone with your reputation.”
His laugh was short, surprised. “My reputation involves a lot of leather and intimidation. Neither of which are particularly comfortable for extended periods.” He moved past me, the awkwardness already smoothing away, slipping back into that familiar mask of casual amusement.
“Besides, if I’m going to spend eternity doing unpleasant things to people, I’d prefer to come home to something that doesn’t make me want to set myself on fire. ”
He headed toward a sideboard I hadn’t noticed—dark wood, simple lines, holding an array of bottles and glasses. His hands moved, selecting a crystal decanter and pouring amber liquid into two glasses.
“So.” He turned back to face me, holding both glasses, and the smirk was back in full force. “What can I do for you, Isara?”
I didn’t take the offered glass. Didn’t let myself get comfortable. I needed to stay focused, stay angry enough not to get distracted by the fact that this room felt more human than anything else in this gods-damned castle.
“Did you know Merrick?” The question came out flat. Direct. “Before. At Nyxaria.”
Cindrissian’s expression didn’t change, but something shuttered behind his eyes. He set both glasses down on the low table between the chairs with deliberate care. “Yes.”
“How well?”
“Well enough to know he was dangerous. Well enough to make it out of Nyxaria alive when I left.” He moved to the burgundy chair, sinking into it. “Merrick and I ran in similar circles before Eilrys and I fled. Why?”
“Because he said things.” I stayed standing, arms crossed, refusing to let my guard down. “In that cave. About Varyth. About me being caught in something I don’t understand.”
Cindrissian’s fingers drummed once against the arm of the chair. “And you want to know if he was lying.”
“I want to know if he was fucking with me. If this is some elaborate game to—I don’t know, make me doubt Varyth, turn me against him, deliver me to Ashterion wrapped in paranoia and distrust.”
“Smart questions.” He leaned back, studying me with that intensity that made me feel like he was reading a book written in my bones. “The answer is complicated.”
“Then uncomplicate it.”
His laugh was almost fond. “You really don’t do subtlety, do you?”
“Not when people are dropping cryptic warnings about the male who’s keeping me alive while half the realm wants me dead or worse.” My hands clenched into fists. “So were you close? You and Merrick?”
“Close is a strong word.” Cindrissian’s gaze drifted to the fire, watching flames dance across logs. “We knew each other. Worked together on occasion. He’s Ashterion’s right hand. I was a court spy before I became whatever the fuck I am now. Our paths crossed frequently.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.” His eyes cut back to mine, sharp and assessing. “We were close enough that I knew his tells. Close enough to know when he was lying and when he was wielding truth like a blade. Close enough that leaving Nyxaria meant burning that bridge permanently.”
“So, would he lie to me? To manipulate me into trusting him over Varyth?”
“Your fire belongs to Nyxaria.” Cindrissian said it simply, like he was stating a fact as obvious as gravity.
“The magic you’re carrying originated in Ashterion’s court, which means that Ashterion likely felt that connection.
He’s incentivised to bring you there.” The word dripped with distaste.
“So yes. Merrick might absolutely lie if it meant bringing you to Ashterion’s side.
Might say whatever he thought would fracture your trust in Varyth and make you vulnerable to recruitment. ”