5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
I refuse my dinner that night.
And the next.
On the third night, the short, gruff-sounding female approaches my tent, with a wooden bowl in her hand. There’s some kind of broth within it, still steaming from the campfire. She holds the tent’s flap open with her shoulder, arm outstretched with the bowl waiting in her palm. Her coppery hair hangs wild around her round face, though most of it has been pulled back into a low ponytail at the base of her head. An orange shade similar to her hair, her eyes remind me of a falcon’s—calculating and predatory.
I remember her from the ambush—she’s the one that wields dual hand axes.
Scowling at her, I make no move for the bowl.
“Fine,” she says, her voice thickly accented. I can’t tell what region she’s from, but I know it’s not mainland Inatia. “Be like that.”
She steps back, letting the tent flap fall to shield me from the camp outside. I haven’t left since Savell and Ronan dragged me back after—
After Theelia made it known that Asheros and I are fated.
I needed this time to plan my escape, I reason with myself. The next time I make my move, I won’t get caught.
My stomach growls in protest.
I was stupid to refuse the food. But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m only partly rejecting it out of spite. The truth is, even if I wanted to, I don’t think I’d be able to eat. My body is on edge, tension gripping my bones. Every so often I have to remind myself to loosen my shoulders, otherwise they’d be up to my ears. And though my stomach grumbles in hunger, the thought of consuming anything makes nausea roil in my abdomen.
Asheros’s words replay in my mind.
“If we want to do this successfully, then we need her alive.”
I swallow.
“We need her alive.”
Why in the gods’ names would he need me alive? Me, the second-born daughter? Me, the former Captain of the High King’s Guard? In the grand scheme of things, I’m no one of consequence. Not politically, anyway. My usefulness comes from my closeness with Viridian. Perhaps it’s Viridian that Asheros is after, and he’s using me to do it. Because of the two of my mother’s daughters, Vestella would be the more likely target if he was making a political move. She’s the heir-apparent, not me.
And what could any of this have to do with our bound fates?
The voices outside my tent pull me from my thoughts. “Again?” A smooth, masculine voice asks.
Asheros.
“Again,” comes a gruff-sounding, feminine reply.
“Let me try.” Asheros says, “Thank you, Gryska.”
Gryska.
So that’s her name. It only confirms my suspicion that she’s not from mainland Inatia. Names like that aren’t common around here. Not in the Steel Court, at least.
A head of silky, white-blond hair pokes through the tent’s opening, and the rest of Asheros’s body comes into view when he steps inside. He’s wearing a white shirt that hangs loose on his torso, the thin fabric doing little to hide his leaned, toned abdomen. The “V” shaped neckline frames his chiseled collarbones, his tanned chest visible underneath. Black leather pants hang low on his hips, his shirt untucked.
Furrowing my brow, I harden my jaw .
Leaning down because he’s too tall to fit inside the tent at his full height, Asheros walks in and sits down next to me. He places the bowl on the ground beside him and then his hands move toward me.
“Don’t touch m—”
Before I can finish, he gently presses my shoulders down, returning them to a normal level. “At ease, Bladesinger. No harm will come to you here.” His eyes find mine. “I promise.”
Without meaning to, I take a deep breath and release the tension lingering in my body. “For now,” I counter, a sharp edge undercutting my words. “Until whatever you need me alive for has come to fruition.”
Asheros sighs and looks away from me. His hands slip from my shoulders. “You heard us talking the other night.”
“It’s your fault for being so loud.”
He lets out a breathy chuckle. “Fair enough.” He looks at me as though he’s expecting me to respond. “I’m willing to bargain with you,” Asheros starts when I don’t say anything. The planes of his face have gone utterly serious, and that sly, cunning air about him is nowhere to be found. Still, with him, it’s hard to be sure. “A truce. If you don’t attempt to kill me, then I won’t attempt to kill you. As long as I’m safe with you, you will be safe with me and my companions.” He pauses, searching my expression. “Do we have a deal?”
Pressing my lips together, I exhale through my nose. “Deal.”
Asheros nods, though his expression doesn’t shift, still staring at me with a pensive look playing at his mouth.
Despite our agreement, we both know the truth. If we’re not mates, then one of us is bound to kill the other. As of right now, we don’t know which will come to pass.
“Come,” Asheros says, holding out his palm. “Dine with us.”
I stare at his hand for a long while, and then, for some gods-damned reason, I take it.
He picks up my bowl with his free hand, and then leads me out of the tent. The others are sitting on downed logs that act as benches with their own bowls of broth in hand. Savell, Ronan, and a curly, golden-blond-haired male sit on one, while the two females—the coppery-haired Gryska, and a white-haired female with a longbow strung across her back—sit on the other.
They turn to look at us when we approach. I quickly yank my hand from Asheros’s, but not before the others see. A flicker of emotion crosses his face when I do—something akin to disappointment or rejection—but he composes himself before I can determine which.
“I’d like to introduce you all to our guest, Lady Lymseia Wynterliff,” Asheros announces.
I roll my eyes.
Guest.
He says it like it’s my choice to be here. Not that he’s holding me captive against my will.
I have half a mind to tell him that to his face .
The fae seated around the fire slow their movements, though many still cradle their bowls close to their bodies. I can’t tell whether they’re happy to meet me, or if they’d rather strike me down where I stand.
Either is a legitimate option.
“You’re already acquainted with Savell Wrenwrith and Ronan Darir,” Asheros says, looking at me while ignoring his companion’s reactions.
Savell dips his head, and Ronan lifts his chin by way of greeting.
Asheros slides his attention to the golden-haired male. “This is Orim Brennor.”
Brennor …
The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place how I know it.
Orim gives a little wave, flashing me a sweet grin. “It’s good to meet you.”
“Same to you.” I force a polite smile. Though, judging by the look on Savell and Ronan’s faces, I don’t think it comes across the way I intended.
“Next, meet Gryska Xellamora.” Asheros gestures to the coppery-haired female with the heavy accent.
Seeming as if she can’t be bothered, Gryska merely grunts a short “Hello” in between mouthfuls of soup.
“And last, but certainly not least,” Asheros continues, turning to the white-haired female sitting beside Gryska, “is Kheldryn Vaslythe—the best archer you’ll ever meet. ”
Kheldryn chuckles with a roll of her fern-green eyes. “You speak too highly of me.”
“And you think too little of yourself,” Asheros counters. His eyes linger on her for a moment, and it stirs an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.
I suddenly have the urge to slam my fist into Kheldryn’s jaw, if it means she’ll stop looking at him like that.
Ceren’s voice echoes in my mind.
“Do not let your emotions get the better of you. Yielding yourself to them means that you are not in control.”
Immediately silencing the thought, I turn my face to the campfire. I take a deep breath and banish the twinges of jealousy threatening to sink their claws into me.
I’m in control. Asheros Larmanne has no hold over me. There’s no reason for me to be so…possessive where he’s concerned.
I take the bowl with my dinner from Asheros and lift it to my mouth to sip.
Asheros raises his brows when I do, and then touches his palm to the back of his neck.
I ignore him, swallowing another mouthful of broth. It wasn’t ladylike behavior, but I’ve never claimed to pay attention to etiquette. I’ve never had to. Though, if I ever make it to Illnamoor, I will need to conduct myself like a lady.
I wrinkle my nose.
With the introductions out of the way, the others return to their conversations, acting as if I’m not here .
Good.
It’ll save me the trouble of having to play nice.
“Do you dislike it?”
My head snaps to the voice. “What?”
“You’re scowling into your broth.” Asheros points to the bowl in my hands, now holding one of his own. “Do you dislike it?”
“Ah—that.” I tilt my head back in understanding. Then I shrug. “I’ve had worse.”
He cocks his head, as if I’ve piqued his interest. “Have you?”
“Yes,” I tell him, my tone even. “When I was training to be a member of the Guard, there was a time I lived off gruel—morning, noon, and night.”
Asheros furrows his brow, that usually straight mouth of his curled into a frown. “You can’t be serious. How are you to train hard if you’re malnourished?”
“It’s a test of willpower,” I explain, glancing at him while we eat. I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. “To see who’s strong-minded enough to endure. After the first four weeks, they switch our meals to steamed meat and vegetables.”
“Ah. Do many pass this test?”
“Less than you’d think.”
“Interesting.” He redirects his attention to his broth, tipping his head back as he sips. “In that case, I’ll have to tell Orim that you enjoyed the soup.”
It doesn’t come as a surprise that the cheery, golden- haired male is the one to thank for the meal. I can’t imagine any of the others being much good of a cook.
Neither one of us says anything for a moment.
Then Asheros breaks the silence. “Are you always this tense?”
“Only when I’m in enemy territory.”
Feigning pain, he leans back and raises a hand to his chest. “You wound me, Bladesinger.”
“Where even are my blades?” I ask, my voice sharp. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost them.”
I’m only half-joking, but the thought of my steel blades being lost somewhere strikes a pang in my chest.
Asheros narrows his eyes and then straightens his mouth. “Rest assured, I haven’t lost them.”
“But you won’t be giving them back to me, either.”
“I do have some self-preservation instincts, Lady Wynterliff.”
“I think I prefer Bladesinger.”
His mouth perks with interest. “And why is that?”
“If you return my blades, then maybe I’ll tell you.”
A smirk tugs at Asheros’s lips, as if I’ve entertained him somehow. “Fair enough.”
“How long has it been since the ambush?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. It feels strange to be speaking so freely with my captor. I don’t want to push my luck, but it can’t hurt to ask. If I can find out how long it’s been, then perhaps I can figure out how far we are from the border between Keuron and the Steel Court. There may already be search parties out looking for me.
Asheros straightens his mouth, pressing his lips together like he’s choosing his words very carefully. “Long enough.”
Damn him.
Perhaps he’s smarter than he looks. Maybe even much smarter. A serpent hiding behind a pretty boy face.
Asheros holds out his hand as if to take my bowl. I make no move to give it to him, instead opting to add it to the growing stack by the campfire myself.
He exhales, shaking his head a little, and then places his bowl on top of mine.
Having already deposited their dirty bowls, the others stand and murmur their “goodnights” before trailing off to their tents. Orim, Savell, and Ronan filter into one, while Kheldryn and Gryska head to the other.
A half-smile playing at his lips, Asheros gestures in front of him with both hands. “After you.”
He wants to herd me back into his tent like some sort of prize?
As if I’d willingly share a tent with this male.
I glare at him.
But he doesn’t falter. He stares me down, meeting my glare with a completely unbothered look of his own. If anything, my resistance seems to amuse him.
I cross my arms. “You can’t make me do anything.”
“You’re right,” Asheros admits. “I can’t. But I’m perfectly happy to stand here with you all night.”
Clenching my jaw, I ball my hands into fists. “You wouldn’t stand here all night.”
That sly smirk tugs at his mouth. “I think you’ll find that my endurance is near limitless.”
Limitless endurance…
Shivers trickle down my abdomen, ending between my thighs.
Don’t you dare finish that thought, Lymseia.
His wicked grin widens as if he knows exactly where my impure mind went. It only fuels the frustration pulsing through me. My nostrils flare, and I hold eye contact, refusing to be the first to break.
But just as he warned, Asheros seems perfectly content for us to stand here and stare at each other all gods-damned night.
I groan. “You’re so—”
“Dashing? Irresistible?” He interjects, voice light with humor.
And he dares to mock me, too?
My frown deepens. “Incredibly aggravating,” I retort, before storming into the tent.
Asheros chuckles behind me.
I head to the corner on my side of the tent, intending to stay as far away from him as possible. Why I let this male get under my skin is beyond me. He’s the only one in the realm with the unique ability to muddle my mind.
It seems Asheros does have some common sense because he doesn’t comment. Seemingly unbothered by me, he prepares his bedroll and pulls back the blankets so he can lie down. Lying flat on his back, he lets out a soft exhale and rests his head on his palms.
I do my best not to notice the way it makes his forearms and chest flex, suppressing the blush I feel stinging my cheeks.
What in the gods’ names is wrong with me?
I can’t let myself get distracted. That was the first thing Ceren taught me when I started training. Distraction leads to sloppiness. Sloppiness gets people killed.
“Out there, beyond the castle walls, your enemy will want you to be distracted,” Ceren had said to my group of trainees. “Out there, in the heat of battle, distraction is lethal. Listen closely, because the most important thing I can ever teach you is this: don’t, under any circumstances, lose focus.”
Whatever it is that makes me react to Asheros this way, is a test. A test of focus. Because that’s all Asheros Larmanne is.
A distraction.
Willing my body to shed the heat that lingers on my skin, I lie down on my bedroll, turning on my side so that my back faces Asheros, then pull the woolen blanket over myself. I close my eyes and clear my mind. I have no intention of going to sleep.
This is my window of opportunity to escape.
The longer I stay here, the more distracted I’ll be. I can’t have that. I have responsibilities. Matters of grave importance that I need to attend to. Staying here isn’t an option.
Not when Viridian’s crown and his fragile peace hang in the balance.
Inhaling deeply, I slow my breathing to make it seem like I’ve fallen asleep. I wait a few moments, listening closely for movement. Asheros’s own breathing falls into an even rhythm, and judging by the lack of rustling I hear, he won’t be moving any time soon.
I wait, the time stretching until I’m sure he’s asleep.
Now’s my chance.
I open my eyes, lingering a moment for my eyesight to adjust to the darkness surrounding me. Careful not to make a sound, I pull my blanket back, placing it down gently.
So far, so good.
Touching my fingers to my bedroll, I lift myself onto my feet. My torso is curled over my knees, in a crouched position. Of course, the tent is void of weapons. The bastard. All the same, I could end him with my bare hands alone. Yet without evidence of his treachery, all I’d do is potentially start a war. Killing him now isn’t an option.
But escape is.
I pause again to make sure I haven’t woken Asheros.
I glance at him. Still breathing evenly, he hasn’t moved, and his eyes are closed.
Adrenaline courses through my veins, powering my movements. I rise from a crouch, though I don’t extend to my full height. Keeping my knees bent, I advance, moving toward the front of the tent.
“It’s in your best interest to get some rest, Bladesinger.”
Asheros’s voice stops me in my tracks.
I look over my shoulder at him. He hasn’t moved at all—still lying with his hands behind his head. He hasn’t even opened his eyes.
“Gods-damn it,” I curse under my breath.
That bastard’s been playing me this whole time. Just like I attempted—and clearly, failed—to trick him into thinking I was fast asleep.
When I don’t move, he says, “Despite what you might think, I’m an extremely light sleeper. Thus, I don’t find it necessary to tell you what’ll happen if you try to leave.”
Irritation claws at my chest.
Asheros opens his eyes and looks right at me. “Do I need to get up and put you back to bed?”
“Don’t you dare,” I warn.
“Why not?” he taunts. “Daring sounds like fun.”
“Try it then,” I challenge. “It’s been too long since I messed up a male’s pretty face.”
His lips part into a sinful grin, eyes glinting in the low light. “Ah, so you think I have a pretty face?”
I grit my teeth. “I didn’t say that.”
“Mm-hmm,” Asheros muses, satisfaction dripping from his words, “sure you didn’t.”
“I’m going to punch you,” I say, balling my hands into fists. But I make no move toward him .
He flashes me a wicked look as if daring me to try it and see what would happen if I did. “I’ll play however you’d like me to, Bladesinger.”
“Urgh,” I grumble, letting out my frustration. I storm back to my bedroll and lie back down, aggressively tugging the blanket up and over my head.
Clearly amused, Asheros laughs.
I wrap the blanket around myself tighter and squeeze my eyes shut. I can already tell this male will be the death of me.
There’s barely a hint of sound before something cool grips my arm, and my eyes flash open.
I pull the blanket down.
Clasped around my left wrist, is a pale, gray-brown cuff, seemingly carved from a gemstone. In the light, a hexagonal structure is visible within the stone, refracting a sheen like that of darkened gold, though its shimmer is nowhere near as impressive. Immediately, a weight settles into my body, and my limbs feel as though I’m trudging through rough waters.
“Troilite,” I seethe, recognizing it instantly. Ceren had warned me about it.
A rare mineral formed by the mixing of iron and sulfur deep beneath the earth, troilite combines the adverse magical effects of both. Notably, iron’s ability to weaken and harm the fae, and powdered sulfur’s ability to amplify the existing magical properties of its paired mineral. While the dilution of the iron in troilite lessens the burning sensation that pure iron would cause, reducing it to an annoying sting, the sulfur within the stone ensures that I won’t be at full strength so long as I wear this cuff.
Settling back into his bedroll, Asheros leans his head back, smugness tugging at his mouth.
“You truly are a prick.” I clench my jaw. Even that takes more energy than it should. “Where did you even manage to find this?” Given its rarity, troilite isn’t particularly easy to come by.
The amusement playing at his brow tells me I won’t get my answer. “If I tell you that, Bladesinger, it won’t be a secret, now, will it?”
“You will tell me or gods be damned, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” He lies back down, eyes trained on me. I want to slap the amusement from his face. “You’ll punch me?”
I grind my teeth. Anger blazes through me, raging like the fires of hell.
Fuck trying to escape. I’m going to stay, simply so I can gather evidence of Asheros’s treachery and uncover how deep it goes. When I’m through with him, and I’ve exposed his schemes, Viridian will have more than enough proof to deal with this traitor.
I’ll make sure of it.