Chapter 61 #2
A cold smile touched his lips. “Does it matter?”
“It might,” I said, unable to look away from the latticework of scars and wounds that covered his back and chest. Some were clearly battle wounds, but others... others had the deliberate, patterned nature of torture.
Ashterion’s eyes held mine in the mirror as he reached for a clean tunic. “Curious about your enemy’s weaknesses?”
“Just trying to understand why someone with your power would let himself be carved up.”
Ashterion’s expression shifted, an emotion I couldn’t place crossing his face before it smoothed away. He turned toward me, the firelight casting his scarred torso in stark relief, shadows dancing across the ridges and valleys of old wounds.
“Why?” he asked, soft but edged. “Would it make you feel better about what’s happening to you? To know that I’ve suffered too?”
I didn’t answer right away, studying the constellation of suffering.
“No,” I finally said. “It wouldn’t make me feel better at all.”
A flash of bitterness cracked through his composure for a moment. He slipped the clean tunic over his head, covering the evidence of his pain.
“Good,” Ashterion said, returning to that cool, detached tone. “Because sympathy is wasted on monsters like me.”
He moved back to his chair, settling into it with that effortless grace that belied the damage beneath his clothes.
“Who did that to you?” I asked again, quieter now, the rage that had consumed me moments ago tempered by something I refused to acknowledge.
Ashterion’s gaze lifted to mine, a lethality dancing in those midnight-blue depths. For a moment, I thought he might not answer, might simply dismiss the question.
“Scars are collected over centuries,” he finally said. “Some from battle. Some from... other encounters.”
I refused to let him off so easily. “And the fresh ones?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, the barest hint of tension before his expression smoothed once more. “You’re quite observant for a human.”
“And you’re quite evasive for someone who claims not to care what I think.”
His lips curved slightly. “Perhaps I simply find your curiosity amusing.”
Frustration burned through me again. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
Ashterion smirked, but there was something else lurking beneath it. Something quieter. “Scars are stories, Isara.” His voice had lost that ever-present edge of mockery. “Some are still being written.”
The way he said it sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
“And which is it for you?” I asked. “A story, or unfinished?”
With an almost thoughtful sigh, he leaned forward. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Wariness, or annoyance, perhaps, lined his face before he masked it again. “Why?”
I inhaled harshly, exhaling through my nose. “Because if your scars are unfinished, then I know you’re not untouchable.”
A pause. A fraction of a second where something shifted between us.
Ashterion chuckled. A quiet, dark sound. “You’re not wrong.” He leaned back again, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “But don’t mistake that for weakness.”
I didn’t. Not after what I’d seen.
Ashterion might bleed. Might suffer. Might have wounds that hadn’t yet healed. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
It meant I had no idea what truly held his leash.
I forced my arms to uncross. “If you don’t want to answer, then don’t,” I said finally. “But don’t act like I’m the fool for asking.”
He didn’t meet my eye. Instead, he simply stared at a point over my shoulder.
Then, after a long moment, he nodded. “Fair enough.”
Something about the gesture unsettled me more than any insult he could’ve thrown.
Ashterion rose from his chair, moving to pour himself another glass of wine. The liquid caught the firelight, dark and rich as blood.
“I need to discuss this arrangement with you,” he said abruptly, his back still to me.
My muscles tensed instinctively. “What arrangement? I thought it was clear. One night a week in your chambers for healers.”
He turned, swirling the wine in his glass with practiced elegance. “Xyliria has expectations.” His tone was relaxed, but his posture had changed, a subtle tension I hadn’t noticed before. “She expects results from our... sessions.”
“Results?” A warning prickled across my skin.
“Evidence,” he clarified, studying me over the rim of his glass. “That I’m breaking you.” He spoke the words as though they tasted foul in his mouth.
I stared at him, a chill slithering down my spine.
“Breaking me,” I repeated.
Ashterion’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”
“And what exactly does that entail?”
“It means,” he said carefully, “when you return to your cell, you need to look like you’ve been through hell.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “You want to hurt me.”
“No.” The answer came quickly. Almost defensive. Then he composed himself. “What I want is irrelevant. But what needs to happen is that you must appear to have been... handled.”
I backed away instantly. “So, what’s your plan? Beat me until I can’t stand? Cut me open the same way you’ve been cut open?” I snarled, disgust coiling through me. “And I’m supposed to let you?”
Ashterion’s expression shifted, the mask slipping enough to reveal something raw underneath. “I need you to listen, Isara.” His voice was barely audible above the crackling fire. “I have no intention of torturing you.”
I barked a harsh laugh. “Then what exactly is your plan?”
“Illusion.” He moved closer, his steps measured. “Shadow magic can create wounds that appear real, that feel real to anyone who touches them but cause no actual damage.”
I stared at him, disbelief warring with a dangerous flicker of hope. “Why would you do that? Why not hurt me and be done with it?”
“Because...” he hesitated, something passing across his face that I couldn’t comprehend. “Because this isn’t what I want.”
The words hung between us, startling in their honesty. I studied him, trying to find the lie, the manipulation, the trap. But his expression remained open, unguarded in a way I hadn’t seen before.
“You expect me to believe you suddenly developed a conscience?”
Ashterion’s midnight eyes hardened. “I expect you to understand that we both have roles to play.”
“And what’s yours? Torturer with a heart of gold?”
“My role,” he said, voice dropping lower, “is to keep myself alive. And to keep your fire out of her hands.”
A slow, creeping sensation worked its way up my spine. Something I couldn’t even name. “And why would you care about keeping my fire from her?”
“Because if Xyliria gets control of that power, she’ll use it to burn everything to the ground.” His voice shifted into something raw, something genuine. “And I’ve spent too many centuries trying to prevent exactly that.”
I stared at him, the pieces shifting in my mind like a puzzle I couldn’t quite solve. The scars. The marriage. The way he’d warned me. The strange, conflicting signals he kept sending.
“You’re afraid of her,” I realised, the words fell from my lips before I could stop them.
His expression shuttered instantly. “Don’t be absurd.”
But I’d seen the truth before he could hide it.
“You don’t—” I stopped, the realisation crashing over me. “You’re her prisoner too, aren’t you?”
Ashterion’s face went completely blank, a stillness so perfect it could only be practiced. For a moment, I thought he might lash out, might unleash those shadows that coiled restlessly at his feet.
Instead, he turned away, moving to the window.
“You should be careful with accusations like that,” he said, so quiet I had to strain to hear him. “The walls have ears.”
I stepped closer, something shifting in my understanding of him. “That’s why you warned me. Why you’re offering illusions instead of torture. You’re caught in the same trap we are.”
His shoulders tensed beneath his fresh tunic. “I am High Lord of Nyxaria. I am not trapped.” But there was a hollowness in his response. A recitation rather than a truth.
“Bullshit,” I said quietly. “If you’re not trapped, why are your scars still fresh? Why do you flinch when she speaks? Why are you creating illusions instead of hurting me?”
Ashterion whirled to face me, his shadows rising around him. “Enough.”
But I couldn’t stop now. The pieces were falling into place too quickly.
“What does she have on you?” I pressed, stepping closer despite the danger radiating from him. “What keeps the mighty Shadow Lord on a leash?”
His hand shot out, faster than I could track, clamping hard over my mouth. His palm was cool against my lips, his grip firm as he backed me against the wall.
“Stop talking,” he hissed, his face inches from mine, eyes wide. “You have no idea what you’re saying.”
I struggled against his grip, but he held firm, his body boxing me in without quite touching me.
“Listen to me,” he whispered. “There are things you don’t understand. Things that will get both of us killed if you speak them aloud.”
The shadows around us thickened, coiling up the walls in strange patterns.
“If you want to live.” Ashterion’s breath was hot against my ear. “If you want your friends to live, you will never speak of this again. Do you understand?”
His fingers pressed harder against my lips, the pressure just shy of painful.
I nodded, the movement small beneath his palm. The shadows around us pulsed once, twice, then settled into a gentle rhythm that matched his breathing.
He released me slowly, his hand dropping to his side, but didn’t step back.
The heat of his body radiated through the space between us, his breath falling in even counts against my skin.
And that’s when it hit me, the scent of him.
Cedar embers and storm-washed night, like lightning had struck a forest and left only the memory behind.
It made him seem suddenly, alarmingly real. Not the monster from stories, but someone who carried weather inside him.
“I don’t understand you,” I murmured, searching his face for any hint of deception. “One moment you’re threatening me, the next you’re trying to protect me.”
Ashterion’s jaw tightened. “I’m not protecting you,” he said, but he lacked conviction. “I’m protecting what you carry.”
“The fire.”
“Yes.”
“Then show me,” I said, steadier than I felt. “Show me how you plan to fake it.”
Ashterion considered me for a long moment, as though looking for some hidden trap. Finally, he stepped back, giving me space to breathe again.
The shadows at his feet twisted, then snaked up his legs, his torso, his arms—until they pooled in his palm.
“This will hurt,” Ashterion warned, “but only for a moment.”
I steadied myself against the wall, my heart racing. “Just do it.”
He pressed his shadow-coated hand to my forearm. Fire erupted across my skin, a flash of pain so intense it stole my breath. I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out.
Then, nothing.
No lingering ache. No throbbing wound. But when I looked down, a jagged gash ran the length of my forearm, blood welling from it, dripping onto the stone floor.
I stared at the gash.
It bled. Thick and red, running warm down my skin. But there was no pain. No throb beneath it. No searing bite where shadow should’ve burned.
I reached with trembling fingers, expecting to touch torn flesh and feel it scream.
But my hand passed over it like mist.
My heart jolted. “It’s not real.”
Ashterion’s voice came from somewhere near my shoulder. “I told you it wouldn’t be.”
“Could’ve been an elaborate trick. You seem the type.”
That strange, unreadable mouth of his twitched.
And then, gods help me, he made a sound. A soft one. Rough around the edges. Almost a laugh.
“I’ll do the rest in the morning,” he said, turning away. “You’ll ruin my bedsheets if I finish them now.”
I went still. Not because of the joke. Because of the implication.
My response was steel. “I’m not going to bed with you.”
He paused mid-step, back to me.
“She said one night a week in your chambers for the healers,” I went on, slow and deliberate. “Not your bed. If that’s changed, you can shove your illusions and your little shadow games.”
Ashterion turned, shadows curling low at his boots, but his expression was blank. “No one said anything about that.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied,” he said coldly, “that I would prefer not to have to remake an entire blood-soaked bed when I could finish the work tomorrow. You’re the one who leapt to another conclusion.”
I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest. “Then what exactly are you suggesting? That I sleep on your luxurious floor while you take the bed?”
“The bed is large enough for two people to maintain a respectable distance,” Ashterion said, maddeningly reasonable. “I have no interest in you beyond keeping us both alive.”
“Absolutely not.” The words shot from me like daggers. “I’ll take the floor.”
Ashterion pinched the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly tired. “Don’t be stubborn. This isn’t a matter of preference.”
“It absolutely is. My preference is to not share a bed with you.”
“As I told you, Xyliria has certain expectations about our arrangement.” An edge of disgust crept into his tone. “If someone were to enter—a guard, a servant, Xyliria herself—and find me sleeping on the floor while you took the bed, it would cost us both.”
I let out a growl, too exhausted to put up another fight. “Fine. But if you come anywhere near me, I’ll rip your eyes out.”
Ashterion’s lips curved. “Your threats would be more convincing if you weren’t swaying on your feet from exhaustion.”
I hadn’t realised how visibly tired I was until he pointed it out. My body felt leaden, each limb heavy with days of strain and sleepless nights. The brief relief from the healing bath had long since faded.
“I’m fine,” I lied, even as I caught myself leaning against the wall for support.
“Of course you are,” he drawled, his eyes glinting. “Just as I’m known throughout the realm for my warmth and compassion.”
I shot him a withering glare. “Don’t try to be charming. It doesn’t suit you.”
He settled back into his chair, reaching for a book. “Go to bed fireling, I would like to do a bit more reading, but I expect you are rather tired.”
I clenched my fists, ready to argue. Except…
He was right. I hated that he was. Hated that the massive, sinfully soft-looking bed wasn’t just tempting—it was aching. My body recognising the need for rest before my mind could shut it down.
A real bed.
Rest.
How long had it been since I’d had comfort?
I moved to the bed and slid beneath the covers. My intention had been to stay awake, not to let my guard drop for even a second. But the moment the warmth wrapped around me and the mattress cradled my aching body, something inside me cracked.
The blankets were warm, as though they had been left near a fire and had been waiting for me.
I hadn’t realised I was cold until I wasn’t. Sleep took me before I could truly fight it.