Chapter 75
Ashterion stood, the tremor in his limbs drowned by the roar of magic under his skin.
The grass beneath him shivered with leftover energy, shadows trailing after him like smoke from a fire that refused to die.
He didn’t stop to look back at the blade he’d left lying under the tree. Didn’t waste breath questioning the storm of power crackling in his veins.
He moved.
Ashterion took the stairs down from the rooftop two at a time, shadows flickering around his heels. They weren’t used to this, him, in motion. Him, with purpose.
There was no plan. No strategy. No grand vision.
He couldn’t fight Xyliria. He’d tried to find peace in surrender. In death.
But now?
Now he burned.
If he could reach the castle—if he could find the others, warn them, free them—maybe they could stop her. Maybe there was still a way to end this, to stop the poison at the heart of his court. Even if it meant his death. Even if it was a fool’s hope.
Better that than this quiet, obedient nothingness he’d endured for centuries.
He was nearly to the front door when it hit him.
The snap.
A severance.
Like something ancient inside his chest had been yanked loose with violent finality, leaving a raw, echoing space where it used to pulse.
He choked on breath that never fully reached his lungs.
The binding—gone.
Unravelled in an instant. Torn from bone and blood and branded memory.
His knees buckled. He staggered, one hand catching the doorframe. The other hovered, trembling, suspended inches from the latch.
The shadows knew. They recoiled and flared, lashing out in frantic spirals, sharp-edged and startled, like panicked birds scattered from a corpse.
His vision blurred.
The house spun around him, too loud, too quiet, too real all at once. His heartbeat wasn’t his own, it was wild, unchained, and echoing in the space where obedience used to live.
Impossible.
There was only one way the binding could break. Only one condition written into the blood-forged contract. A single, inescapable truth burned into his bones from the day she bound him.
His heart stuttered. His vision blurred.
No.
It couldn’t be. Not unless…
His thoughts snagged, fractured. Flashes seared through him. Her voice, her touch, the blade, the orders he could never disobey. All of it held together by that single unyielding thread.
And now?
Gone.
His stomach twisted. The shadows writhed.
And then Ashterion was running.
The streets blurred beneath his feet, shadows streaking alongside him, matching his frantic pace.
They were stronger now, more vibrant than they’d been in centuries, whipping around corners, swallowing obstacles before he could reach them.
People scattered from his path, pressing against walls, ducking into doorways.
He knew what a broken binding felt like.
He’d felt it before, when his father died and the court’s power had transferred to him.
That sudden, violent snap of magic finding new roots.
But this was different. This was personal.
This was the tether that had bound him to Xyliria for four hundred years, suddenly severed.
There was only one explanation.
Something had happened.
Something impossible.
The castle loomed ahead, a towering monstrosity of obsidian and silver against the night sky. Even from here, he could feel it—the chaos, the violence, the shift in magic that rippled through the air.
His mind raced with possibilities, each more unlikely than the last. Had Merrick already acted? Had Varyth somehow broken free? Had some unknown ally finally moved against her?
Ashterion slipped through a side entrance, keeping to the shadows. The inner halls were eerily silent. His shadows stretched ahead, tasting the air, seeking threats. Nothing. Just emptiness and the lingering scent of fear.
He rounded the corner toward the grand hall, every sense heightened. The massive double doors loomed before him, ornately carved with scenes of ancient battles.
Ashterion pressed himself against the wall beside the entrance, his body going utterly still. His shadows stretched forward, slipping through the cracks, tasting the air within.
They returned to him almost immediately, coiling around his ankles, agitated in a way he’d never witnessed before. They twisted, not with their usual predatory patience but with a frenetic, almost desperate energy. They weren’t merely unsettled, they were afraid.
Ashterion’s breath caught in his throat. His shadows had been many things over the centuries—cruel, hungry, protective—but never afraid. They quivered around him, pulling at his clothes, pushing against his legs as if trying to drag him back, away from the doors.
“What is it?” he whispered, crouching to touch the writhing darkness.
Images flooded his mind. Blood. Death. Power. And something else... something familiar yet utterly foreign.
And at the centre of it all, a figure wreathed in darkness.
A figure with copper hair.
Ashterion’s heart slammed against his ribs.
Isara.
He rose from his crouch, every muscle tight. Forced himself to breathe. Slow. Steady.
The shadows swirled tighter, a warning, but Ashterion was done heeding warnings. Done cowering. Done waiting.
The power under his skin pulsed, vibrating through his bones, demanding release after centuries of suppression.
He wouldn’t unleash all of it—couldn’t risk that level of destruction, not yet—but the pressure was unbearable. He couldn’t contain it anymore. Didn’t want to.
Ashterion let his head fall back, eyes half-closing as he loosened his grip on the power he hadn’t held in centuries.
The relief was instantaneous. Shadows exploded from his skin in waves, rippling outward like ink in water, the darkness thick and alive as it coated the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The stone beneath his feet cracked, hairline fractures splintering through the marble as his power surged free.
Something inside him broke open.
Not just magic, memory. Freedom. The weight of four hundred years of submission, of watching his court rot from within, of standing by while Xyliria destroyed everything he’d once protected.
His vision blurred, then sharpened to painful clarity. Every sound, every scent, every sensation magnified until the world itself seemed to breathe through him.
Ashterion stepped forward, his shadow-laced fingers reaching for the massive doors before him. The metal was cold beneath his touch, ancient and heavy. He paused, feeling the power surge through his veins.
Then he pushed.