Chapter 50
Ibarely noticed the stone beneath my feet as guards dragged me forward, my body aching from bruises and wounds I no longer had the strength to count. The iron grip on my arms burned, my wrists raw from the shackles that had been there for too long.
The halls blurred past me, grand and elegant despite the nightmare they housed. My captors’ boots echoed against polished stone.
Then, abruptly, we stopped.
A door opened. I was shoved forward, stumbling into a small dining hall, the heat of the fire crackling in the hearth a stark contrast to the chill that had settled deep in my bones. It should’ve comforted me. Instead, it made my skin crawl.
I hadn’t even steadied myself before I saw him.
Ashterion sat casually at the head of a long, polished table.
A snarl ripped from my throat, vicious and unrestrained, my teeth bared, my muscles tense and prepared to strike.
Ashterion watched me unfazed.
And I hated him for it. Hated the way he sat there, draped in the calm he wore as armour. As though he wasn’t the reason I stood here, bruised and beaten, dragged from a cell that should never have been mine.
I lunged. Or I tried to.
The chains around my wrists yanked me back before I could so much as reach him, the harsh bite of metal digging into my skin, sending a jolt of pain through my arms.
“You bastard,” I spat. “You fucking bastard.”
Silence stretched between us.
And then, finally, he spoke. “I see your time in the dungeon has not dulled your fire.”
I nearly snarled again. He had no right to sit there, so composed, so unaffected, while I stood before him like this—filthy, battered, every inch of me aching.
“Go to hell,” I rasped.
His midnight-blue gaze lingered on me. Then he leaned back, responding with the ease of someone who’d heard it all before. “I’m already there, dear fireling,” he said, “and it seems you are too.”
“What do you want?” I demanded. My entire body trembled with the effort not to launch at him. “Another show? Sorry, I don’t have any more dragons for you to murder.”
Ashterion didn’t react to my venom. He gestured to the chair nearest him, his movements fluid and controlled. “Sit.”
I didn’t move.
“Sit,” he repeated, and this time there was a hint of the power that lurked beneath his composed exterior.
“Why?” I finally managed. “Why bring me here? Is your wife watching somewhere?”
A shadow crossed Ashterion’s face at the mention of Xyliria, before his expression smoothed back to that infuriating calm.
“My wife is currently occupied elsewhere.” The tension in his tone held like a leash. “This conversation is between us.”
I stared at him, unmoving, suspicion winding through me.
“I said sit,” Ashterion repeated, his voice deceptively soft. “Unless you prefer to continue this conversation on your knees.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to silence my next retort. My legs moved involuntarily. Traitors. The scrape of the chains against the floor drowned out my thunderous heartbeat.
“Food,” Ashterion said, gesturing his hand through the air. A bowl of stew, and a glass of cold water materialised in front of me.
I eyed the steaming bowl of stew warily, the rich scent of seasoned meat and vegetables curling in the air. My body screamed for sustenance, yet my mind remained sharp, distrust woven into my bones.
Ashterion sighed, a sound that was almost exasperated. “I’d hardly go to all this trouble just to poison your food.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the chair, the bite of the metal cuffs against my wrists grounding me in my suspicion.
“You’ll forgive me,” I said flatly, “if I don’t put blind trust in the male responsible for putting me in a fucking cell.”
His gaze shimmered with something I couldn’t understand, but he merely leaned forward, resting one arm against the table. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”
“Comforting.”
“Eat.” He jerked his chin toward the bowl. “You need your strength.”
I watched him warily, searching for any hint of deceit, any shadow of the cruelty I expected. But there was nothing—only quiet, infuriating patience.
A fresh wave of hunger gnawed at my stomach. Slowly, reluctantly, I reached for the spoon. The first bite was cautious, the warmth of the broth hitting my tongue, rich with herbs and spices. It wasn’t the bland, watered-down slop I’d been given in the dungeons. It was real food. Hot. Nourishing.
I hated how good it tasted.
Ashterion watched as I took another bite, his expression bored.
We sat in silence for a moment, the only sound the faint clink of my spoon against the ceramic bowl. My body screamed for me to devour it, to shove it down as fast as possible, but I forced myself to pace each bite, refusing to look desperate.
I swallowed down a mouthful. “Why am I here?”
Ashterion’s eyes held mine, unblinking and fathomless. In the flickering firelight, they shifted with shadows that weren’t quite natural.
“Curiosity,” he said, the word thrumming through the air. “I find humans… intriguing.”
I stared at him, spoon hovering above the bowl, my pulse thrumming in my ears.
“A shame you’re so filthy.” Ashterion studied me with the detached interest of someone examining a new species. “I would have liked to examine you properly.”
A dry, humourless laugh scraped from my throat. “Apologies for not donning my finest gown while rotting in your dungeon.”
Ashterion smirked. “I accept your apology.”
The absolute gall of him.
I clenched my teeth, fingers tightening around the spoon. “You’re a prick.”
He didn’t react, didn’t even breathe differently. Instead, he tilted his head, as if weighing the insult and discarding it as beneath him.
“There’s a bathing chamber through that door,” he said smoothly, gesturing with a flick of his fingers. “Get cleaned up.”
“Fuck. Off.”
Ashterion sighed, long-suffering, as if I were the one being difficult.
I lifted my chin, refusing to look away.
“Unless you’d prefer my guards scrub you down themselves,” his voice was calm, almost bored, “you will do as you’re told.”
The air in the room shifted.
I went utterly still, my breath catching in my throat. Rage sank into my bones, twisted itself into my lungs, choking out anything but the sheer loathing I held for him in that moment.
If I had my power, I’d burn the skin from his bones, slow enough to make him feel every scream he’d ignored.
But I wasn’t stupid.
Not here. Not now.
“I can hardly bathe while chained.”
Ashterion sighed, then snapped his fingers. With a loud clink, the shackles on my wrists and ankles fell away, landing in a heap on the polished stone floor.
The collar at my throat, however, remained. I lifted my fingers to it instinctively, it was smooth, cool against my skin. A silent, inescapable weight.
“That stays,” Ashterion said, as if reading my thoughts.
“Afraid I’ll run?”
“Afraid you’ll do something stupid. Especially with that fire.”
I glared at him for a long, tense moment.
Then, without another word, I rose from my chair, stepping over the fallen chains as I turned toward the bathing chamber. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of hesitation. Didn’t let him see how deep the fury ran in my veins.
The bathing chamber was more luxurious than I had anticipated. Plush towels were stacked neatly on a marble counter, alongside various oils and soaps. A full-length mirror stood in one corner, reflecting the glow of enchanted lanterns that cast the room in a warm, golden light.
I stood motionless for a moment, overwhelmed by the stark contrast between this opulence and the filthy cell I’d been languishing in for gods knew how long. My reflection caught my eye, and I nearly flinched at the sight of myself.
A stranger stared back at me. Gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes ringed with dark circles. My copper-red hair hung in matted clumps, streaked with dirt and blood.
A massive sunken tub dominated the centre of the room, already filled with steaming water that smelled faintly of lavender and cedar.
I approached it cautiously, my reflection fractured and distorted in the surface of the water.
The steam curled around me, warm and inviting after weeks of cold stone and damp air.
For a moment, I stood there, torn between desperate need and stubborn defiance.
In the end, need won out.
I stripped off my filthy clothes, wincing as the fabric pulled away from wounds both fresh and half-healed. My body was a map of abuse, purple bruises bloomed across my ribs and every inch of me ached.
I slipped into the hot water, the heat working its way into my battered body. For a moment, I stilled, letting the warmth envelop me. Then I began to methodically scrub away the grime. I worked the soap into my hair, watching as the water around me turned murky with blood and dirt.
But I blinked, and the water was clear again.
What sort of magic was that?
I ducked my head beneath the water, holding my breath until my lungs burned. When I resurfaced, gasping, tears mingled with the bathwater on my face. I scrubbed them away angrily.
Fresh clothes were folded neatly on a small bench near the tub. They hadn’t been there before.
A simple tunic of deep emerald, leggings, and leather boots.
I eyed them warily, then glanced toward the door.
It remained closed, but the knowledge that Ashterion could enter at any moment, that he had likely been in here while I bathed, sent a chill down my spine that even the hot water couldn’t chase away.