Chapter Thirty-Three
Power corrupts.
Even if the intention was good at first, it will never last.
For power has a way of twisting our minds, of forcing us deep into the bowels of darkness.
Tabitha Wysteria
Ash had closed his eyes, as he so often did, and drifted back to a time when the world had felt lighter, almost kind. The memory unfolded with aching clarity. He could see them as they had been, unbroken, untouched by the weight of what was to come. Laughter still lived there.
It was a dinner party, set in the days before Hagan had joined the Red Guard, before duty had claimed him and stolen his hours away.
Back then, he had worn court finery and taken his place among the nobles, eating and drinking as though he truly belonged, as though the future had not already begun to sharpen its teeth.
Alina and Adara sat side by side, draped in opulence—extravagant gowns that caught the candlelight and turned it into gold.
Their heads were thrown back in shared laughter, careless and bright.
Ash could no longer remember what had sparked such joy, only that the warmth at the table had faltered the moment one of the nobles had spoken of witches.
‘Must we always speak of such tedious things?’ Alina had said, rolling her brown eyes, impatience shining across her beautiful face.
‘If they are a threat, then they matter,’ someone had replied, earnest and humourless.
Alina had pulled a face at that, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Well, what a bore,’ she had muttered. ‘I cannot wait for father to have their heads cut off and be done with it. If there are any left, that is. I thought we had burnt them all.’
Ash caught the flash of anger in Hagan’s eyes.
He always did. And every time, he chose to ignore it.
He smoothed it over, dismissed it as nothing.
Even when the truth of Hagan’s mother had come to light, when he had learnt she was a witch in disguise and had threatened her outright, he still turned away from the warning signs. Again and again, he let them pass.
Why?
The question haunted him now. If he had acted, if he had confronted Hagan instead of retreating, might everything have been different?
Perhaps the attack on the drakonian castle would never have happened.
If he had spoken to Hagan, if he had told him that they were still brothers, warlock or not…
would any of it have changed? Would Hagan have spared those lives?
Deep down, Ash knew the truth. Hagan had grown to resent him. Eventually, that resentment had curdled into hatred. And why wouldn’t it have? Ash had not been innocent in any of this. He had broken his promise to protect Hagan from the world, no matter the cost.
It had been Ash who drove Hagan’s mother away.
Ash who had threatened her, who had hurled vile words born of a young mind steeped in fear and prejudice.
In that moment, he had despised witches, and the woman standing before him, without mercy.
Learning she was a witch in disguise, that his closest friend was half-warlock…
it had shattered him. Twisted the shape of his world beyond recognition.
And for a time, he had hated Hagan for what he was.
Yet even then, even through the anger and the betrayal, love had persisted. That part of him had always won in the end, no matter how much it hurt.
Ash could still remember that night—the way he had stormed back to his chambers, fury sharp and blinding, already bracing himself to go to Hagan.
To cast him out. Perhaps even to kill him.
He had gone as far as Hagan’s door, intent on tearing every shared memory from his mind, on severing whatever still bound them.
But the moment the door had opened, the moment Ash had looked upon that familiar face, a face he had known since boyhood, his resolve had crumbled. He had turned away. Said nothing. Done nothing.
A coward, perhaps.
He knew it now. If he had confronted Hagan then, truly confronted him, the world might not look as it did now. If he had found the courage to strike, to end it before it could fester and rot…everything might have been different.
Ash moved towards one of the keep’s many windowless arches and looked down upon the darkened beach below. His jaw tightened at the sight awaiting him there. Thanatos, hands buried in his pockets, standing still as a statue while he watched the storm-tossed sea.
With a weary breath, Ash left the keep and made his way down to the shore. He stopped some distance away, unwilling to draw too close to the demon who haunted his existence, the shadow that had followed him for far too long.
‘You n-need to stop sho-showing up here,’ Ash said, his voice tight, fraying at the edges.
Thanatos did not turn. He remained fixed on the sea, the stormlight catching in his dark eyes, utterly unbothered. ‘I like to check up on my wife.’
The words struck like a blow.
Ash’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to hit the demon, to feel bone give, to see blood spill, to prove that Death could bleed just like the rest of them.
Jealousy coiled around him, slick and poisonous, wrapping itself around every limb before tightening cruelly at his throat.
He hated this feeling. Hated himself for it.
He did not own Mal. He knew that but still, some desperate, selfish part of him wanted her wholly, fiercely, for himself.
He did not want to share her.
Not with Thanatos. Not with the husband who had come before him.
Even though Mal did not remember that life, even though those memories lay buried and lost, Ash knew the truth: Thanatos and Mal had shared an entire existence. A history carved deep into eternity. How could he ever compete with that?
He couldn’t.
‘We ought to tell Melinoe the truth,’ Thanatos said quietly. ‘She’ll never forgive us.’
Ash swallowed hard. A bitter thought gnawed at him—that perhaps Thanatos was more deserving of Mal’s love after all.
At least Death feared her anger. At least he respected it.
And yet, Ash could not allow the truth to surface, not yet.
Not if it meant risking their child. Not if it meant everything falling apart.
‘We can’t,’ he said at last, his voice low and resolute. ‘Do as we agreed. I’ll pro-protect my daughter and you’ll—’
‘And I’ll protect our wife.’
Ash snapped his gaze towards him, fury blazing in his golden eyes. Thanatos finally smiled, slow and deliberate, clearly savouring the torment he’d inflicted.
The demon laughed softly, as if the world were nothing more than a game, and Ash, nothing more than a piece upon the board.
‘I am not you,’ Ash said, his voice low and stripped bare.
In that moment, he felt like a child again—small beneath the weight of his father’s punishments, the echo of authority pressing down on his chest. His mother had always turned away from the king’s cruelty, choosing distance over defiance, and Ash had learnt early never to reach for her when he needed love or comfort. He had learnt to endure in silence.
It had been Hagan who had filled that hollow space.
Hagan, who had knelt beside him to clean the wounds and bruises left behind by the king’s hands.
Hagan, who had stayed when the tears came, steady and wordless, until the shaking stopped and the world felt bearable again.
No one else had done that for him. No one else had seen him in his weakness and chosen to stay.
Perhaps that was why Ash had been selfish.
Perhaps that was why he had kept Hagan close, even after learning the truth. Why he had clung to him when he should have pushed him away. Why hatred had never truly taken root in his heart, not even when Hagan had murdered the king and queen.
Because somewhere deep inside, Ash had understood it.
He had seen the act not only as treachery, but as vengeance. A reckoning for years of neglect. For years of cold indifference and quiet cruelty. For all the ways they had failed him.
For all the ways they had failed Alina too.
‘I am not you,’ he said again, louder this time, as if raising his voice might anchor the truth in place.
‘But you are,’ Thanatos replied, unflinching.
‘No.’ Ash shook his head, sharp and desperate, as though the motion itself could fracture the thought before it took root. ‘Because if I am… it m-means that I am not real. That I do n-not ma-matter.’
Thanatos sighed, a sound older than weariness, and finally turned to face him. For the first time, the cold certainty in his features softened, just a little.
‘None of us truly matter,’ he said quietly. ‘That has always been the greatest lie of all—believing we do. The world does not pause for us, Ash Acheron. It does not stop turning, whether we exist or not.’
Before Ash could answer, a subtle shift in the air made his skin prickle. Thanatos’ black eyes flicked to something behind him, widening for the briefest heartbeat before his expression settled back into its familiar mask of indifference.
Ash turned.
Mal stood at the far end of the path that led back to the keep, still as a blade drawn but not yet swung. Those purple eyes were narrowed, sharp with thought, her gaze sliding from Ash to Thanatos and back again, weighing them both.
She began to walk towards them, slow and deliberate.
And Ash could not help the small, bitter satisfaction that sparked in his chest when Mal shot Thanatos a look that could have cut stone—before dismissing him entirely, as if he were nothing more than a shadow she had already stepped beyond.
‘Melinoe…’
‘Leave,’ she said, teeth clenched, the word sharpened by fury. ‘Are you not busy following your master’s orders?’