Chapter 67 #2
Ashterion tied off the braid at the end, letting it fall down her back. Not his finest work, but it would do.
He guided her to the cushioned chair by the table, one hand light on her back. A flick of his fingers summoned steam from nowhere, stew thick with root vegetables and herbs, a warm crust of bread, and a chilled mug of dark ale.
“Eat.” He meant to sound cold. He didn’t succeed. “I’ll change.”
Isara sat, blinking at the food like it might vanish if she stared too hard. Then, for the first time since he’d lifted her from the bath, she really looked at him.
“Why are you soaking wet?”
Ashterion froze mid-step.
He didn’t look down. His tunic clung to his chest, his pants dripped steadily, and his hair was wet, curling at the ends.
“I…” he hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I fell in the bath.”
Silence.
Isara frowned. Hard.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion so sharp it could’ve sliced through bone.
“You… fell?”
“It happens.”
“Does it?”
Ashterion stared at her.
She stared right back, spoon halfway to the bowl.
But then she scooped some food into her mouth.
Thank the fucking stars.
Ashterion sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he stalked toward his dresser. He tugged out dry clothes, slipping behind the half-unfurled privacy screen, stripping off his soaked tunic and pants.
The damp fabric hit the floor with a wet thump as he dressed quickly, pulling on fresh pants and a loose, dark shirt.
When he emerged, she had eaten half the bowl.
A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest that he refused to examine too closely. He moved to his desk, arranging papers with deliberate nonchalance, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of an hour bathing and dressing a human who had, until recently, been little more than a thorn in his side.
A thorn that had somehow worked its way deeper than he’d anticipated.
Because something had changed tonight, upsetting the balance he’d maintained for centuries. The walls he’d built, the persona he’d crafted, the calculated indifference he’d perfected… all of it felt suddenly flimsy.
He had bathed her.
Dressed her.
Braided her fucking hair.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. What had possessed him? What strange, forgotten instinct had driven him to such… softness? What possible reason could he have for treating her with such care?
He glanced at her reflection in the window, copper hair still damp, the braid already coming loose in places.
It made no sense.
Ashterion raked a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. He was losing his mind. That was the only explanation. Centuries of Xyliria’s games had finally cracked an essential part of him, and now he was… what? Playing nursemaid to a broken female?
He turned away from his desk, unable to focus on the papers before him, and found Isara watching him. Her eyes tracking his movements with a wariness that hadn’t been there earlier.
Because before, she hadn’t been there at all.
“You should finish eating,” he said, his voice deliberately cool. Back to normal. Back to what it should be.
Isara lowered her spoon, her gaze never leaving his.
Ashterion held still beneath it, willing himself not to react to that all-too-familiar look he’d grown used to over the years. Suspicion. Mistrust. A glint of defiance. It was safer when she hated him. Easier. The moment it shifted into anything else, it became dangerous for both of them.
“You should finish eating,” he repeated, quieter this time. More command than suggestion.
Isara didn’t move.
He breathed through his nose and turned back toward the desk, gripping the edge of it as though it might tether him to reality.
What the fuck was he doing?
He had calculated the trajectory of his own death. Had listened to his shadows sing lullabies in the dark like something in him already knew the end was near. And despite all of it, all he could seem to focus on was her.
On whether she was warm.
Whether she was fed.
Whether she’d scream again, broken and guttural and carving into him, making even his shadows recoil.
He looked over his shoulder again. Isara had returned to her food, her spoon slow as it dipped into the stew, but her eyes flicked up toward him cautiously.
Of course she was wary. She should be.
He had helped shatter her bones.
And now…
Now she sat wrapped in his tunic, in a room heavy with his scent, wearing a braid he’d tied with his own hands.
He looked away.
Fuck.
His shadows stirred at the corners of the room, restless. Unsettled. Like they, too, didn’t know what this was becoming.
This wasn’t part of the plan. Not the one he had made for his death. Not the one Xyliria expected. Not the one that would keep everyone—Isara included—alive long enough to see Merrick ascend and end the war.
And yet, despite every carefully drawn line, every reason he’d carved into stone to justify his end—
All Ashterion could think, as she quietly finished her stew behind him, was how much he didn’t want her to be anywhere near the path he’d chosen to walk alone.
Ashterion turned, leaning back against the desk with the sort of detachment he’d perfected over the centuries. His arms crossed over his chest, his expression once again carved from stone.
“You should rest.”
Isara stared at him, the faintest crease forming between her brows, her body angled defensively even beneath the warmth of the meal and the softness of the clothes.
Then, blunt as ever, she cut through the silence. “What the hell is your deal?”
He froze.
Only for a breath. Only long enough for it to register that she’d seen through the performance.
He let a smirk curl at his mouth, lazy and practiced. “You’ll have to be more specific little fireling. I have so many.”
But she stared at him as if she already knew the lie and was waiting for him to admit it.
“You made me eat,” she said, voice calm. “You told me a story about your sister. You won’t look at any of us when we’re being hurt.” Her tone hardened. “But you let your wife torture them anyway.”
Ashterion’s jaw twitched.
Isara leaned forward. “You’re the High Lord of this court. But you let her run it. You let her decide. Even when you don’t agree. Even when it clearly fucking guts you.” She tilted her head. “I don’t care if it gets me killed. What does she have on you?”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Inside, Ashterion cursed himself.
He never should have brought her here. Never should’ve let her stay in his chambers. She was too observant. Too willing to bite when she sensed weakness.
But fuck it.
Anything she learned wouldn’t matter in a few days.
He sighed, then shrugged and let his gaze fall to her throat.
“Not all collars are visible.” He smiled, but it wasn’t real. “Some are worn so long, you forget they’re there.”
“What does that mean?”
Ashterion’s laugh came low and sharp—void of real humour. He pushed off the desk, pacing a slow circle as he rubbed a hand across his jaw.
“Just,” he said, “that if you ever marry someone in this realm, make sure you really read the fine print of your marriage contract.”
Isara blinked.
He let the words hang there. Let her chew on them. Let her see a sliver of the truth, the trap wrapped in silk and bound in gold. Because there were things written into his union with Xyliria that no amount of power could unwrite.
Ashterion turned away before she could speak again, grabbing a decanter from the sideboard and pouring himself a drink with too-steady hands.
He downed the drink in a single swallow, the burn doing little to numb the restlessness prickling under his skin.
He set the glass down with a clink, then turned toward her.
“You need to rest,” he said, tone clipped. “And this is the one night a week I get some damned peace. I’d prefer to enjoy it.”
Isara looked as though she was about to argue—jaw tight, eyes flashing. But then fatigue dragged the fight from her shoulders. She nodded once and moved silently toward the bed.
He watched her slip beneath the covers, each movement stiff, as though her body remembered the pain, even if the healing had dulled it. She settled on one side, back tense, spine straight.
He crossed the room, sliding into the opposite side of the bed. The mattress dipped beneath his weight. She didn’t move, didn’t react to his presence.
He lay still, staring at the carved ceiling above.
Listening.
To the fire crackling low.
To her breathing.
Even. Controlled. Not asleep yet.
And—
Her scent.
Not the lingering trace of the perfumed oils they used in the baths. That was there, yes. But beneath it was her.
Night-blooming jasmine. Burning sage. And something older, stranger. Something that reminded him of stars bleeding light over a war-torn sky.
It hit him all at once, memory and omen tangled together, unbidden and unwelcome. Something in his chest twisted.
He glanced over.
She was facing him. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Loose strands of copper hair spilled across her face and pillow, catching the firelight like threads of gold.
His hand drifted closer beneath the blanket.
Not to touch. Just to be.
But then he felt it. The faintest brush, her fingers against his.
And before he could pull away, before the panic could reach his spine—
Two of her fingers—small, callused, stubborn—curled lightly around his own beneath the blanket, a tether in the dark.
Everything inside him stilled. The shadows. His thoughts. Even his breath.
Ashterion stared at the ceiling, muscles locked. He knew he should pull away. Knew the right thing, the smart thing, was to sever the contact immediately. To remind her, and himself, that this was nothing. That she was nothing.
But stars, when was the last time someone had touched him like this?
Not with violence. Not with hunger. Not in expectation of pain or pleasure or power.
Just… touch.
She hadn’t even looked at him.
Her breathing remained steady. Her eyes stayed closed.
And a part of him cracked.
Not all at once. Just a hairline fracture beneath the surface of all the masks and armour. A place he hadn’t felt in centuries.
He let his fingers remain where they were, curling slight against hers.
Ashterion swallowed hard, eyes burning as he stared at the darkened ceiling above.
The silence stretched on, the kind that could break a person if they weren’t careful.
But it didn’t matter.
Couldn’t matter.
Not now.
Not when he’d already sealed his fate.
In a few days, she’d be back where she belonged, surrounded by her court.
With him.
And Ashterion?
He would be wherever monsters go when their use runs out. Where broken things are laid to rest. He closed his eyes, focused on his breathing, on the warmth of the fingers wrapped around his.
And he didn’t pull away.