Chapter 21
“Xander!”
Ellaryn’s voice echoed through the tunnel as she stormed towards the wall and slammed her fist against it.
The impact barely faded before the solid brick rippled beneath her knuckles.
Ellaryn stepped through without hesitation.
“What were you thinking?!” She exclaimed, cheeks flushed, breath uneven.
Xander glanced up from his papers, unhurried, then leaned back with a resigned sigh. “Hello to you too.”
“This isn’t funny,” she snapped, planting her hands on his desk and leaning close. “Damien could have seen you.”
“Damien?” he asked, a teasing tilt to his head. “Oh, the guy with the afro?” He gestured at his hair, smirking.
“No,” Ellaryn said, eyes sharp. “The guy who works for the King. The guy who would kill you if he had the chance. And the reason for the raids this morning.”
Her gaze flicked to his blond hair—usually buttery and bright, now streaked with ash. She stepped closer. “Have you been outside?”
“What?” Confusion flickered across his features.
“I said, have you been outside?” she repeated, voice low. “Your hair… It’s ashy.”
“I do leave this room, you know,” he said with a small chuckle, shaking the dust from his golden locks.
“You need to listen,” she said, leaning in, voice tight. “You can’t go out there. They’re looking for you.”
“You don’t really expect me to stay in here all day,” Xander said easily, a smirk tugging at his lips, leaning further back on his chair.
“What don’t you get?!” Ellaryn’s hands clenched at her sides. “They know about you. You’re going to get found out.”
“They’d have to find me first,” he said, calm as ever. “I’m glamoured. Remember?”
As the words left him, his form blurred—there one moment, gone the next—then slowly reassembled, solid and whole, a grin already stretching his mouth.
Ellaryn exhaled sharply. “You need to be more careful. This isn’t a game.” Her voice faltered despite her effort to keep it steady. “The city needs you to be careful. Hell—” She stopped herself, then forced the words out anyway. “I need you to be.”
Something shifted.
She hadn’t meant to admit that. Didn’t fully understand it herself. She barely knew him—not really. And yet the thought of the King’s hand closing around him made her chest tighten.
He was her slice of freedom, his skin still untouched by cinders, still carrying the colour of a world that hadn’t burned. As long as he was alive, it meant something had survived.
It meant there was still hope.
She wanted him safe. Untouched. Unclaimed.
Xander’s smile softened, just slightly, and for the first time, he didn’t look like he was joking at all.
“Okay, you’re right.” He lifted his hands and sighed. “You’re right; I’ll be more careful.” His gaze gentled, sympathetic, like he could see every thread of her fear and read it.
Ellaryn held his eyes a moment longer, measuring him, searching for sincerity in the easy smirk that never quite left his face.
Finally, she nodded. “Good.”
She slid into the chair at his desk, still alert, still wary, but the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly.
“How long do you have?” Xander broke the silence, his voice low and careful.
“A couple of hours, give or take,” Ellaryn replied. He nodded once.
“Then we’d best get started.” He said, taking to his feet, motioning toward the mattress in the corner.
Ellaryn’s gaze flicked to it, hesitating. “Will that really be necessary?”
At least he had bothered to make it this time.
“Trust me,” he said softly, almost kindly. “It’s necessary. The pain can be… intense. It’s better to lie down.”
Ellaryn set her jaw, swallowing against the bile creeping up her throat, and gave him a slow, measured nod—understanding, willing, but afraid.
“You can’t have that with you when I start,” Xander said, voice quick but gentle.
Ellaryn’s eyes flicked to where he gestured.
Her sword.
“Just a precaution.” He smiled regretfully.
“I wasn’t planning on using it if that’s what you’re thinking.” She narrowed her gaze at him, reading the features on his face—there was no fear in his eyes.
“Pain and impulse are one and the same,” Xander muttered, almost under his breath. “You feel it, and you want to lash out—it’s human nature.”
Ellaryn pressed her lips together and nodded—just once—she knew that better than anyone.
Her eyes drifted back to the blade sheathed in her belt; the steel edge that had taken so many lives in the King’s name, the weapon that had kept her safe in a world built to crush her.
This was uncharted territory. Her sword was her guard, her armour, her lifeline.
Unclipping it outside her chambers sent a cold shiver crawling down her spine.
She couldn’t say she fully trusted Xander.
Only that she didn’t want him to die. That, at least, was more than she could claim for most people in Cinders.
Carefully, she settled the sword beside the mattress, close enough that she could snatch it if she had to.
The sword went down easier than she did. Her body fought her as she lowered herself onto the mattress; every muscle straining against the suspense, the anticipation, the promise of pain.
She bit into her cheek, forcing herself to lie still.
Vulnerable. Sword gone. Xander looming over her. Her body exposed. He could reach for her weapon and end her in an instant, and she wouldn’t be fast enough to stop him. Twice, he had made her feel like prey in a city where she had always been the predator.
She bit harder, heart hammering, waiting for him to speak.
When he finally did, she flinched, hand jerking toward the sword before she forced herself to stay still.
Xander noticed the tension coiling through her and sank slowly to one knee beside the mattress.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, sympathetically. “I’ll talk you through each step.”
Ellaryn gave a stiff nod and trained her eyes on the ceiling, expelling a long, shaky breath. When Xander didn’t move, her gaze drifted down to his deep blue eyes—like the ocean, calm and endless.
“I’m sorry to say this,” he began slowly, voice careful, “but you’re going to have to remove your shirt.”
Ellaryn froze, shoulders tightening instantly.
“This better not be some elaborate scheme to get me naked,” she drawled, voice sharp.
For a heartbeat, Xander looked as flustered and uncomfortable as she felt.
“Uh… no,” he stammered. “I need skin-to-skin contact for this to work.” Regret softened the edges of his words, making them almost gentle.
Ellaryn exhaled slowly, steadying herself. “Relax, it’s okay.” She peeled off her shirt, each motion deliberate, every fibre of her body screaming to guard herself, to stay armoured.
She caught him glancing away. His eyes did not linger, did not hunger. He wanted to respect the little privacy she had left.
She lay back, exposed in her black training bra, her shirt crumpled on the floor beside her sword. When Xander finally looked at her, his eyes instantly fell over her scars.
She was covered in them. From the King’s hand. From hers.
She felt his gaze trace the contours of them.
Instinctively, she wanted to cover herself, but it was too late. He had seen them.
It was a common misconception that, being immortal, she didn’t bleed or scar.
Her body would heal fast, but pain still lingered, and scars never faded fully.
She still blacked out. Still pleaded. Still cried.
Still felt the sting of every lash and cut, even if her body refused to yield to death.
Whatever the King had done to make her this way had been deliberate.
He hadn’t spared her out of mercy.
He had spared her out of purpose.
For reasons he had never explained, he had made sure she could not die, but he had never taken away her ability to hurt. He had left her the pain. Left her the blood. Left her the breaking.
Because pain was the point. His greatest lesson.
Pain taught.
It shaped.
Pain carved away the parts of her that resisted and left behind something softer. Something quieter. Something that obeyed.
He hadn’t made her immortal to save her.
He had made her immortal to mould her.
Beneath the surface of Xander’s steady eyes, she sensed a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher.
Concern? Hesitation? Hurt?
Whatever it was, it made her stomach churn. She hated it. Hated the way he made her feel… human. Vulnerable. Weak.
“Your scars…” His voice trailed off, heavy with something unsaid.
“You wanna see the one your dagger left?” she said, her tone calm and unbothered even though her heart was racing. His gaze dropped to the scar by her heart, and for a moment, pain flickered across his face.
He forced his eyes away, meeting hers instead.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his face stricken with guilt, cheeks flushed from the heat in the room. These words caused Ellaryn to stiffen; she couldn’t remember the last time someone apologised to her.
“It’s okay. I deserved it,” she replied quietly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. She was used to it. She knew what she was, how broken she looked; she didn’t need him to tell her.
A quiet relief settled over her when he swallowed and, almost reluctantly, changed the subject.
“I’m not going to lie… this is going to hurt,” he said, jaw tight. “I’m going to place my hand on your chest and try to channel the King’s mark.” He paused, brows knitting. “If it gets too much, tap me. I’ll stop. You’re going to see flashes of memories; I’ll see them too.”
Ellaryn’s heart skipped a beat. “What kind of memories?” she asked, forcing her voice steady, though Xander would feel every pulse against her ribs.
“Yours… and his,” he said simply. “They’ll surface at random. Some will be meaningless, but others—” He paused, eyes sharpening—“others will be pieces of the puzzle we need.”
He rolled up his sleeves with deliberate precision, each motion measured, controlled.
Ellaryn nodded, a hundred questions pressing behind her eyes.
“You said this will take time. Why?” She asked, locking her gaze on the blue of his eyes and the careful dust of his freckles.
“Finding a mark requires quiet precision.” He inhaled sharply; she did the same without realising. “If I move too fast, or even tug on the bond too hard, the King will know. It’s like a kind of surgery—little by little, and we should be fine.”
Ellaryn furrowed her brows. “But you’ve done this before, right?”
“Sure,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction.
Doubt prickled at her, and her heart thumped harder.
Her bond to the King was a leash, taut and dangerous. But now… so was Xander’s hand. One misstep, and he could lead the King straight to them.
He noticed fear.
“It’ll be okay,” he reassured, sweat glistening on his brow, strands of hair clinging to his skin.
Ellaryn looked at him—truly looked. For some reason, she trusted him. And that trust scared her more than she was prepared to admit.
“Are you ready?” he asked softly, placing his hand over the centre of her chest.
Ellaryn nodded, unable to speak. Her mouth was dry, her voice swallowed by the tension that wrapped around her body.
Xander’s hand left a cool pressure on her chest; it wasn’t necessarily cold, but the dread for what was coming was. She took in a deep breath and gazed up at him as he closed his eyes, his brows furrowed deep in concentration.
At first, it was almost imperceptible—a flicker, like a candle trembling in the wind. A tingling ran across her skin, rising and falling as quickly as it appeared.
Ellaryn wasn’t sure if it was even working… until it warmed.
Then it burned.
Her body jerked, convulsed, each throb hotter than the last, as if a red-hot iron had branded her chest. She wanted to scream.
Wanted to grab her sword and sever Xander’s hand from his wrist. It felt as though he had torn her insides out and replaced them with coals, each one blazing, spreading relentlessly until it consumed every nerve.
Hands clenched into fists, she tried to breathe, tried to anchor herself, but the pain would not relent. Her vision blurred. Sweat slicked her hair, her pale skin, mingling with tears she couldn’t hold back.
She looked at him. His forehead creased deeper, concentration etched into his face.
She was doing this for Sailen. For the city.
She had to hold on.
She couldn’t tap out—couldn’t.
She was dripping in sweat now, crying, whimpering, feeling hazy with the pain.
The walls felt as though they were pressing in, and suddenly she couldn’t see Xander anymore. She saw herself from an impossible angle. In her nightmares, when she would see this moment, it was always from her eyes, never from above.
Her mother’s lifeless face. Her father’s slumped shoulders. Everything drenched in red.
Her younger self reaching for the King’s hand… the King, touching her, taking her, marking her.
Her emerald eyes. Those wide, innocent emerald eyes.
She wanted to scream at herself. Tell herself not to take his hand. Not to go with him.
Her fingers burned. Her cheeks flushed. Sweat pooled beneath her. The pain was almost unbearable, like nothing she had ever felt. She bit her tongue so hard the sharp sting merged with the blaze in her chest, and she screamed.
Blood was everywhere: on the little blue dress her mum had sewed for her, in crimson puddles on the floor, and she realised in that moment this memory was not her own; it was the King’s on the day he found her.
Ellaryn cringed, biting so hard down on her tongue that it bled.
She tapped Xander in an act of desperation.
It had to stop.
She had to make it stop.
His hand lifted, and the heat vanished instantly. Relief hit her like a tidal wave, but her lungs still screamed for air.
She had broken.
She hated herself for breaking.
She thought of Sailen and of the people relying on her and sobbed into her hands.
She had let them down.
“I’m sorry… I-It was too much.” She cried until her vision was littered with tears.
Tears for the last fifteen years that refused to fall.
It was a foreign feeling: the heat in her eyes, the salt-water taste on her tongue as each tear tracked down her face, the lump in the back of her throat.
She hadn’t cried in years. Years. She had tucked her emotions away so deeply, knowing that the King hated weakness.
And now she was sobbing like a fucking baby in Xander’s arms.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, cradling her. “You did good. You did good.”
For a moment, she forgot she was exposed, forgot her sword lay across the room. She let herself be held, let herself feel human, let herself feel safe for the first time in what felt like forever.
“That’s enough for today. We’ll try again tomorrow,” he said softly, and she felt the edge of control return.
Drying her tears, she tugged her shirt back over her skin, picked up her sword, and caught his gaze briefly before stepping away.
“When are you coming back?” Xander asked, a dark crease in his brow.
“Tomorrow night.”
Was all she said before the wall swallowed her whole.